Gentle, the Night
by The Noble Rot
Summary: A young Bedouin slave named Rana tells the tale of her life and the great love she holds for her master. Welcome to the one and only Salahuddin fiction.
1. Unrest

**Gentle, the Night**

To be a slave...

There were those in other lands, Rana had heard, who treated their slaves in an manner far worse than the lowest animal. She had never seen cruelty herself, not in all the eight years of her servitude. Her master gave her meat and honey and goat milk, dressed her in fine linen, allowed her to rest for a full seven hours every night. Beatings were rare and she was forgiven swiftly afterwards. She had friends, other slaves who had traveled with the caravan of war to care for their masters during these dark times. Most of them were older than she, but Rana's friendly nature won over young and old alike.

And her master was very great.

Rana the Bedouin, the slave, had been given as a gift to Salahuddin by her over-burdened parents in the summer of her seventh year. Instead of sending the girl off to be the servant of one of his generals, or perhaps even freeing her into the streets of some distant city, the soft-spoken sultan kept her close and taught her to read. He never harmed her, leaving her for the most part under the care of this or that teacher. Rana loved especially the mullahs, who seemed to relish the chance to speak to an eager pupil even on the field of battle. And the gentle-eyed warrior Nasir let her ride his horse and gave her little gifts he picked up during his travels. It was a better life than the one she'd lived as a free girl. And as a slave she was not expected to marry right away. She was free, in a sense, of a certain portion of the constraints that the rest of her sisterhood submitted to in accordance with the Shariah, the Islamic law. Even on the hard road from Damascus to Makkah, Rana enjoyed her daily activities.

She walked this evening by the outskirts of the camp, watching the way the light shimmered on the distant horizon like pools of water. Lakes of Satan, her people called them. Among the nomadic Bedouin, to whom water was literally a matter of life or death, the haunted mirages that danced on the distant sand were a cruel joke that led many foolish or desperate travelers to their end. Salahuddin had told her, in that infinite, patient way of his, that the lakes were really portions of the sky reflected in the heated sands.

"The desert is deceptive, habibiti," he would tell her, looking out over the vast rolling dunes, "You must treat her with great respect."

"Iwa, Sayyidi." she said softly, "Yes, my lord."

Rana always listened to him.

There was a bright oil lantern burning in his tent, casting dim shadows against the thin fabric. At nightfall she knew the light would be extinguished, making it difficult for attackers to locate the camp. No bright lights anywhere would give away their position, nothing more than a single candle per tent, and the watchers around the outskirts would be alert through the night.

Safety even in a time of war came at a high price - Rana knew that her master greatly missed reading after Isha prayer...but he was strict in his desire for the safety of blackness.

Rana paused outside of the tent to remove her sandals, then pulled the soft fabric flap aside and stepped in.

"Assalamu alaikum, bata." his soft voice greeted her, and she lowered her gaze respectfully.

"Alaikum salam." she began to fill a silver teapot from a small wooden bucket, careful not to strike the dipper against the rim of the expensive Persian artifact as she did so. Misuse of beautiful things was one of the acts that irritated her master, be it a teapot or a woman or a horse or even an entire city. She hung the teapot above the oil lantern, watching to make sure that it was not so close to the flame as to scorch the bottom, yet not too far away that the warmth would fail to heat the water within. When she had finished, she turned to prepare the bed in the corner, pulling back the simple blanket and plumping the raw silk pillow with a practiced touch.

"The sunset was brilliant this evening, my lord. Like the entire sky was burning."

"Yes, my child. I am sorry I was unable to watch it with you."

He set down his pen and leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes looking not at her, but through her, deep in thought. Rana moved toward him, kneeling at his feet and taking his hand in hers. It was a gesture that no one else would have dared to make. Salahuddin was not a man that allowed people to touch him freely. He was proud, disciplined, gentle and yet very cruel at need. His soul was closer to Allah than any other human being Rana had ever met. To touch him was to touch the hand of God.

She raised her face to look at him, sitting there in the halflight with the lines of determination and weariness eased on his face. His turban was off, and the coal-dark curls with iron highlights spilled freely over his slim shoulders. A more lordly man had walked the earth only once before, when Sayyidina Muhammad emerged from a cold cave high in the hills with the light of the divine shining in his eyes.

"Tell me again of your travels, Master." she whispered, and Salahuddin closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him like a great tide.

"One war after another, great campaigns and waves of men on horseback, men on foot. The smell of sweat and horseflesh and wet leather, the jingle of armor and swords, the flap of the standards bearing the holy name of Allah."

Rana drew her knees up against her chest, leaning her dark head against his knee and picturing in her mind all that he described.

"The riding was hard, but we were strong and God led us. All the battles run together, habibiti. The sun rose sometimes on my left, sometimes on my right, sometimes behind, and sometimes we rode into the blinding light, all in a mass."

"When did you first kill, master?"

"The first man that I killed was a Syrian. My knife went through his stomach like cutting through tough meat. I will never forget the smell of the blood, and the way it soaked into the cracked dry earth at my feet."

Rana kissed the back of his hand.

"I want to kill for you, Master." she whispered. Salahuddin put his rough hand under her chin, tilting her face up to look into her eyes.

"Hold fast to your innocence, child. Too soon will it be gone." his voice was deep, patient, and heavily accented. They spoke English to one another for the most part, fond as he was of teaching his followers as many languages as he felt they needed. Rana sometimes slipped back into Arabic when she was tired or excited, and she did so now.

"Ana la afham, Sayyidi." she said petulantly. I don't understand, master.

"In time, you will. As much as I am pleased by your desire to fight in this cause, I am not in favor of putting a sword into the hand of a female child just yet."

"I am strong."

Salahuddin chuckled softly, his eyes lit with amusement.

"I am well aware, little one. Now on to your tasks. I must meet with Nasir and Mullah Khaled this night before I rest. When they leave, you may return and sleep here."

"Shukran, my Master."

"Afwan. Now go."

There were soon three horses tied outside the tent in the shade of the succulents. Two of them she knew very well. Rana dearly loved Salahuddin's black battle charger and Mullah Khaled's soft-nosed Arabian mare. She rubbed them both down with a skilled touch, then turned her attention to the newcomer, Nasir's mount.

It was a superb stallion, dark as turned earth, with a nobility to the curve of its neck and the flash of its eyes that belied excellent breeding.

"Very fine horse." Rana whispered, stroking its flanks respectfully. Horses such as this were hard to come by these days. She removed his saddle and bridle, making soft agreeable sounds to calm the beast as she did so.

There was a bit of dried vegetation tangled in his mane, and Rana gently worked it free and held it up to the moonlight for inspection. Seaweed. She had seen it a few times before, when the war caravan's travels took them near the coast. But what it was doing in the mane of a war horse was beyond her.

Still, the warrior to whom this steed belonged was very great and noble. Perhaps he'd ridden the horse across the waves themselves, like the heroes in some of the old stories she'd loved as a child. She pictured the spectacle, the moon-bright foam flying up as the horse's hooves struck each wave, wetting both mount and rider in salt spray under the dark dome of the sky.

Dreamily, her mind lost in fantasy, Rana did not notice that she had been idly petting the stallion's nose for some time. The tent flap opened, and Mullah Khaled strode forth in a state of agitation.

"Rana, my horse."

"Sir?"

He fixed her with a stern look.

"Dreaming again, child?"

Rana blushed, moving quickly to untie his horse and refasten the saddle. Khaled watched her critically as she worked.

"You must be one of the most unskilled slaves I have ever known."

"Thank you for your guidance, sir. I am unworthy of your teaching. But I shall do my best to improve."

He waved his hand as though brushing away the thought, looking slightly mollified.

"What were you dreaming of?"

"Nasir riding his horse on the sea."

"An inventive image."

"Do you know where the steed came from?"

Khaled moved to help her.

"He was given the horse in Jerusalem by the Baron who'd killed Al Feiss."

"What? Mahmoud is dead?"

"Dead as dust. And the horse came from the sea, or so the Baron told Nasir."

"There was seaweed in his mane."

Khaled took his horse's reins from Rana and looked down at her appraisingly.

"You will be a woman soon." he noted. Rana blushed, looking at the ground.

"I am approaching my fifteenth year, sir."

"So many years? You have the look of a child of ten."

"I have always been small, my lord."

Khaled patted the top of her head, smoothing the soft folds of her linen hijab away from her face.

"You are a hard worker, and very loyal. You will make a good wife for someone soon. It is a pity you are not more beautiful, but there are other skills that are important for a good wife. You are strong enough, and reasonably intelligent."

Rana did not know what to say to this, and so she kept her silence.

"My lord Salahuddin will probably make you a gift to one of his lesser captains. You will have a good life, little Rana."

"But I do not want to be married! I want to wear a sword and kill infidels!"

The mullah frowned, shaking his head.

"You are a woman. You will no more wield a sword than fly to the moon. Know your place, child. It is not Allah's will that your hands be dipped in blood."

"But there were women who fought for Sayyidina Muhammad, peace be upon him. You told me - "

"You are not these women, and times have changed! It is haram, forbidden, for you to even entertain such thoughts! Now go and pray two rakkats, and ask forgiveness for your childish fantasies of slaughter. If you are still troubled by these daydreams, come to me and we will talk."

Rana bit her lip to keep her words in check. She did not want to be the wife of some old fighter. She did not want to cook and sew and have children in the seclusion of her home. Her heart longed to ride to battle behind her Master, to swing a scimitar instead of a broom, to serve Salahuddin forever on the field of war.

But she did not say these things.

Instead, she took Mullah Khaled's hand in hers and kissed it, hiding her feelings of unrest.

"You are very kind to waste such time on a silly child like me, my lord. I pray that you sleep well this night. You will have need of your strength tomorrow, surely."

Khaled brushed his lips across her forehead and mounted his horse.

"I wish you sweet dreams, little Rana. May they be filled with healthy babies and honey cakes and the sweet smell of the home. You will be a good wife. Do not fight your destiny."

And he was gone in a thunder of hooves.

Rana sighed, pulling her hijab closer about her hair. It was a destiny of boredom that she was being asked to accept, and what Arab could accept such a fate? But it was only the musings of Khaled. Perhaps her Master would not choose to send her from his side, and would instead keep her forever as his servant. Even that would be better than marriage, especially to some stranger.

Nasir emerged from the tent, moving as silently as the night falls. He was still clad in steel armor, his helm in his hand and his dark hair free against his forehead. Rana found herself staring at the soft place just beneath his ear, where his olive skin was bare and hypnotic and inviting. The place seemed made for a woman's kiss.

She blushed furiously and began to quickly untie his horse.

"How do you like him?"

"I love him, my lord." Rana answered instantly, and bit her tongue the moment the words were out. It took her a moment to realize that Nasir had been referring to the horse.

"He is...beautiful, sir."

The proud warrior ran his hand over the horse's neck, looking up at him fondly.

"It was quite an interesting series of events, the manner in which this noble beast came to me. The new Baron of Ibelin took him from the sea and was making his way to Jerusalem when Mahmoud al Feiss and I found him. Mahmoud deeply hates infidels. He saw only an opportunity to slaughter one. It would appear that Allah had another plan for my old friend. But it was not, it would seem, my time yet." he smiled, his white teeth glimmering in the pale light from the campfires nearby.

Rana handed him the reins.

"I am thankful that it was not, my lord. The loss of you would shake my Master's will, for he loves you as a son."

"And I him. He is the very definition of nobility, little Rana. You are fortunate to have such a master."

Rana chewed her lip, her mind troubled. Nasir paused.

"Something troubles you. Speak your mind, please."

"Mullah Khaled said that I am probably going to be given as a gift to some warrior in my Master's army. I told him that I would rather wield a sword! He admonished me. I am now afraid of my future."

"Because Khaled admonished you, or because you do not want to marry?"

"You are making fun of me."

"Perhaps a little, child." Nasir said, not unkindly. "But the mullah has a point, however uncouth his method of expressing it. You are already of a marriageable age, and you are a woman. Your place is not on the battlefield, but at the hearth."

Rana felt deeply unhappy and irritated. Tonight was the first time she'd ever heard of the possibility of being given away, and she was having a great deal of trouble with the concept.

"I would rather die." she found herself suddenly saying. Nasir stopped in his tracks, and turned to her. Then he did something that he very rarely did.

He touched her.

The warmth of his hand on her arm made her shiver, and she looked up at him in an agony of helpless childlike adoration.

"I know. Some horses are never meant to be saddled. I do not suggest pleading your case before your master, though. He is traditional, and will seek only to convince you of the error of your ways, however gently. You are small, but very strong. I have seen you carry the water buckets across the oasis without stopping to rest. Can you lift this?"

He handed her his scimitar, a cruel and beautiful weapon forged over a hundred years ago in Damascus. She took it, raising it above her head as she had seen the soldiers do during practice. It was an exquisite feeling, one of power and grim determination, and she was slightly crestfallen when Nasir lifted the blade from her hands a moment later.

"Come to my tent after Fajr. When the men ride to battle tomorrow afternoon, you will be among them in my spare armor. If you speak of this to anyone, I will deny it and you will know my displeasure. I am helping you because I was in your position once, too young and too over-protected to be allowed near a blade. It was Salahuddin who gave me the chance to fight, to lead. He will not offer you this chance because you are a girl, little Rana. You know this?"

Rana nodded, speechless.

"Doubtless he will be angry with me if any harm comes to you, and so I instruct you to remain at my side all the while. Never stray farther than the length of two spears from my left flank, and I will protect you. Your first taste of battle comes before the setting of the next sun. I suggest you get some sleep. Depending on your performance tomorrow, we will decide on what to do next."

A wordless joy, a profound sensation of gratitude and love and respect began to well up in Rana's breast, and tears formed in her eyes. She wanted to fling herself like a small child into Nasir's arms, covering his bearded face with kisses as she used to do to her father. But decency held her in check, and she contented herself with looking into his eyes for a moment so that he could see her emotion.

"I know, little one. No go to your master. Khaled was very hard to him this evening, although not so disrespectful as the other night. Salahuddin will need a light touch."

"Yes, my lord."

Nasir looked her over carefully, from the few soft curls that escaped her hijab to frame her face to the gentle swell of her hips beneath the linen abaya to the worn shoes that encased her small feet. Something inscrutable passed across his features for a brief second, a look of admiration that made Rana's chest tighten with some unnamed thrill.

He mounted the horse with one swift, elegant movement.

"Until the morning, Rana." he said softly, and was gone.

Rana stepped into her master's tent in a daze. Salahuddin was standing over a map of Jerusalem, staring down at it and stroking his beard in contemplation. He did not turn around as she came moved through the tent, extinguishing lamps and preparing his evening drink. She came behind him at last, touching his sleeve respectfully.

"Would you care for some fig juice, my Master?"

He took the cup from her and sat down in his chair, his face troubled. Rana settled herself at his feet once more, a small pile of his torn clothing beside her to mend. It was a pleasant, comfortable time for the both of them, these hours of the evening before sleep. Rana would mend clothing or sandals while the great leader beside her read from the Qu'ran or told her stories of the old days. Tonight he seemed deep in thought, and Rana did not wish to disturb his silence. But remembering Nasir's advice that her master be treated with a light touch, she made certain that her side was pressed against his leg, and that there was devotion and love in her eyes every time she looked at him.

Finally, he spoke.

"What the mullahs do not understand is that no war was ever won with mere bloodshed. A king must be courteous and wise as well as fearless. The battle for Jerusalem is a chess game, sha tarang, and I will not be urged into making a premature move."

"No, my Master."

"King Baldwin tires, but the time for true slaughter is not until he has passed on. When his sister's underage child ascends the throne, there will be great unrest and instability. That is the time for war. But every day the Templars give me more cause to raise my hand too early. They are a troublesome blight upon Jerusalem."

"The time when you will not have to stay your hand is approaching, my Master. I trust your judgment more than I trust that of any other man. Allah has sent you for this purpose."

Salahuddin sighed, nodding, and rose to his feet.

Rana respectfully lowered her gaze as he undressed for bed, coming to his side only after he had made himself comfortable beneath the blankets. She removed her hijab in the lamplight and began to brush her long, dark hair, humming an old Bedouin lullaby as she did so. Salahuddin watched her until his eyelids became heavy.

"Rana," she heard him whisper before he fell asleep, "You are a beautiful child."

"I love you with all of my strength, my Master." she replied, and so the night passed on in dreamless contentment, dark as the haunted waters of the midnight Mediterranean.


	2. The Scout

The Scout

Rana awoke some time before dawn, feeling stiff and unrested. Something was wet against her face. She touched the place in confusion.

Her hand came away sticky, and there was no mistaking the scent of blood.

With a gasp, she sat up, all trace of sleepiness gone in a stab of shock.

'_Assassins?' _she thought wildly, and panic nearly froze her body.

She did not dare to light a lamp, and so she stretched out her hands in the dark to touch her Master. Within a few moments, her fingertips encountered his bare shoulder, and she was relieved to find his flesh warm. He was not dead. Further gentle exploration revealed a partially torn scab over a wound on his chest. It had opened in the night while he moved during sleep. Rana breathed a sigh of relief. His blood had merely trickled onto her prone form while they both slept.

She pressed a fold of her gown to the hurt, wiping away each drop of blood as though they were more precious than diamonds. For to her, they were.

Salahuddin moved slightly, there was a change in the rhythm of his breathing, and Rana knew that he was awake.

"Is there much pain, my Master?"

"I will be well." he said in lieu of a direct response. Rana dabbed at the wound until the bleeding slowed, then turned aside to feel her way to the water pitcher and linen bandages. When she returned, she sat down on the edge of his bed to clean and dress the injury. Her hands knew his body well, having tended many war-wounds before that he'd deemed too minor for the physicians to trouble with. When she was finished, she set the pitcher on the floor and lay down beside him, chastely atop the blanket. It was a gesture that she only made when she was feeling particularly vulnerable. Her Master was not the type of man who felt comfortable being cuddled by a woman to whom he was not married. But there was a certain innocent intimacy that had developed over time which made these infrequent acts bearable, even pleasant. Rana's mind was filled with the possibilities of the next day, with the knowledge that she might die or be discovered and earn the wrath of the man she most respected.

"Can you not find rest?" he asked her softly. Rana could not answer. There were tears forming in her eyes and she was shaking. Anticipation and joy and worry warred in her chest, none emerging the victor.

"Master..." she began, and suddenly there was no way to stem the flood of emotion. She hid her face in the hollow of his neck, wanting nothing more than to tell him the truth. The image of Nasir's flashing scimitar in her hands floated enticingly behind her closed eyelids. Would it feel like cutting through tough meat, the first time she thrust that blade into someone?

Her trembling increased.

"Habibiti, what troubles you?"

"A dream, my Master. Or perhaps a nightmare."

"You have not experienced such terrors for five years at the least."

"I beg of you, my beloved Sultan, my Lord, my heart. Please do not ask me to tell you of this pain. I will never disobey you, and all that I have and all that I am is yours to command, but I do not wish to share my suffering now. I ask only that you allow me to find the strength I have lost in your embrace."

Salahuddin was a compassionate man, and his mercy at this moment moved him to say nothing. He allowed her to rest in his arms in silence, her head on his chest like a little girl and her tears wetting his shoulder. He held her as a shepherd holds a newborn lamb, as a father holds his first child, as Allah held the world the day it was made. Rana's trembling gradually calmed, and her breathing deepened as she passed into a troubled sleep. They lay like that until the sky began to lighten to the east and Khaled's call to prayer could be heard in the distance.

Fajr.

Her master gently rolled onto his side and touched her face, and she could just make out the glimmer of his eyes in the dim light.

"Whatever demons haunt your soul, little one, I will help you defeat when I return from battle. Fear is unbecoming in one so strong."

"Iwa, my Master. I am weak at times."

He tightened his embrace for a moment, then released her and lay back. Rana rose, moving swiftly to lay out his clothing and armor for the day. The gorgeous scale mail had been forged, link by link, plate by plate, in his homeland by the most skilled of armor smiths. It was rumored to have the ability to turn arrows and blades without taking a mark. Those who spread the tales had never seen the care with which Rana polished and tended the priceless article. Sometimes she would spend the whole of a night just digging sand and dried blood from each individual plate by the trembling light of a single candle while he rested fitfully behind her.

After preparing a simple breakfast and setting it out on the sideboard, Rana bowed once to her master and turned away, stepping out into the chill of morning to begin ablutions for the dawn prayer.

As was their custom, Salahuddin and Rana said no farewells to one another. Every day that he rode to battle was another day he might not return. And Rana had promised him a thousand times in her heart that, should the day come, she would find him again in Paradise and serve him just as faithfully there.

Men and women did not pray together unless they were married. Rana found her place on the edge of the camp with the small handful of other females, most of them also slaves. Here were Maryam and Fatima, Mahana the dancer with her generous hips, her face now scrubbed clean of its usual elaborate paint and glowing with some secret joy in the morning light. And beside her, still drying her hands, was Rana's dear friend Aisha.

"There is blood on your abaya. Did you not even wash?" she scolded as Rana came closer.

"There was not time, I will do it now. Did you rest well, my friend?" Rana asked, bending down to dip her hands in a wooden bucket of water set out for the pre-prayer cleansing. Aisha lowered her eyes modestly, a small frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I was unable to find sleep last night. These past few weeks have brought me unease. I fear that we go forth into some great danger."

"Your master, have you told him this?"

It was a touchy subject, as Aisha's master did not welcome verbal communication with his slave, much though she tried.

"My lord Yasan does not wish to hear of my misgivings. He does not believe in precognitions of any kind. He might view it as heresy for me to even suggest that we have a chance of being anything but victorious..."

The eldest among them, Maryam, clapped her hands to silence their chatter, and as the last strains of Mullah Khaled's athan faded from the air, the women held up their hands to the gathering light and greeted Allah with love and devotion.

"Allahu Akbar." they spoke as one, but Rana whispered in her mind a heartfelt plea for courage all the while.

_'Please, Allah the Merciful, the Mighty, grant me the strength to act with bravery this day.'_

"Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem, Maliki yawm i deen..."

_'I ask only that you guard my beloved Master in his endeavors, as you have guarded him so many times before. Only You know how deeply precious he is to us. To me.'_

"Iyyaka nabubu wa iyyaka nasta-in..."

_'Lay the mantle of your protection over the shoulders of my dear Nasir, whose heart I will always desire and never seek. And upon Mullah Khaled, whose soul is pure and whose mind is clear. Gentle his spirit, for he grows restless more every day that Jerusalem lies in the hands of the infidels.'_

Her eyes closed, she dropped into a graceful bow, her lips forming one set of words as her mind spoke others. Full prostration a few moments later brought her a rush of calm, and determination filled her heart when she rose to her feet again.

By the end of the Fajr prayer, she was ready.

Rana found him in his tent, alone and already partially dressed in his armor. He glanced up from buckling on the hammered steel bambraces, pulling on over them a pair of soft black gloves emblazoned with the name of Allah in gold thread. He noted with approval that Rana was not shaking.

"Remove that. You cannot wear the garment of a woman beneath armor forged to fit a man. Put those on. And close the entrance. Were you seen?"

Rana picked up the small bundle of clothing that he had indicated and moved to the back of the tent.

"I was not." she promised, stripping off the linen abaya and stepping quickly into the pair of soft cotton pants he'd provided. They were his, and consequently much too large. But she tied the belt very tightly around her midsection and pulled the large linen shirt over her head. When she had finished, she came around to stand before him once again, her eyes lowered modestly. Nasir looked her over, then reached out to touch her hijab.

"This, little one, will have to come off as well." he said softly. It was a tense moment. Rana had been trained since the age of seven to hide her hair away from the eyes of all men save one, and that was her master. But Nasir was already pulling the fabric away, and her heavy russet curls spilled out onto her shoulders before she could protest.

"My lord..." she began, looking up at him beseechingly, but he silenced her with a stern glance.

"How many men have you seen wearing hijab, Rana? Besides, your helm will cover your hair and the better part of your face once you put it on. I am not undressing you for my pleasure. Wa'allah el-azim." he said softly. I swear to God.

Rana knew this to be so, but hearing him say the words caused a small stab of pain somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and she drew a shaking breath.

"Forgive me, my lord. It is unseemly for me to behave so."

Nasir leaned down slightly to look into her eyes, and she was relieved to see that he smiled.

"I am not Khaled, habibiti. You do not have to be self-effacing when you speak to me."

"Sir?"

A horn sounded somewhere close by, and Nasir straightened, his eyes hardening.

"Today we ride to Aubrin, forty miles to the south. Not long ago it belonged to us, but Reynauld de Chatillon claimed the place to provide lands for his friend Lord Rand. A garrison of Templars resides in the city for now. We would leave it alone, but it marks an important oasis between here and Jerusalem. No siege can be successful without water, and it is important that we reclaim Aubrin swiftly. Our Master will be riding with us himself this day, and I beside him. You will not speak to him, or meet his eyes. Ride on my right side, away from his horse, and insh'allah he will not recognize you. If you have need to communicate with me, indicate it by touching my arm."

"As you wish, methel ma bedak."

Nasir reached into a trunk by the foot of the bed and drew out a chain mail tunic and a small pile of other protective articles. He arranged them on the bed and began to buckle or tie her into them one at a time. Rana found the feel of his hands occasionally brushing against her body highly distracting, and she sought about for a way to calm herself.

"My Master was bleeding this morning."

"Did the wound in his chest come open?"

"Yes. You are correct."

"I was there when he took the arrow. It was shot in such a way that it penetrated his armor at the place where the arm meets the body, stabbing into his chest. He did not even slow his pace. I have seen his courage many times, and I am always impressed."

"I had thought that he did not often join in the battle itself."

"And so he does not. But there are times when all of us must fight, or risk losing ground. I am always close by him, Rana. He is protected by all of us."

Rana nodded, touched that the warrior would seek to calm her fears when she had no right to question the tactics of battle in the first place.

Nasir finished dressing her and stood back, nodding with satisfaction. He picked up his helm and another that he'd taken from the trunk. When he'd placed the chain mail and beaten steel covering on her head, he handed her a scimitar of Damascus steel and a scabbard of hardened leather.

"Do not hesitate to use this. It is sharp and deadly, and will serve you well. The scimitar is a slashing weapon, not a hacking one as the swords of the Christians. When you attack, make certain that you leave ample room for a downward or upward stroke. The longer the stroke, the more damage you will inflict."

Rana took the blade, buckling it around her waist, and nodded.

"Like the serpent, yes?" Nasir offered.

"Yes. Moving from side to side, striking only when there is a certain opening in the defenses." Rana recited instantly.

"You listen too closely when the men around you speak to one another, little Rana."

"Perhaps I should not be surrounded by such great men."

Nasir laughed and patted her on the shoulder.

"Perhaps not. Now, I shall refer to you as Rashid if need be. Remember what I have said to you. I must go, to attend Salahuddin. You will follow, and find your place at my side."

No more words. Nasir left the tent without a backward glance, leaving Rana to collect her thoughts for a few moments before joining him.

She was able to find a horse easily enough, and swung herself into the saddle with practiced grace. From there she rode to the front of a large gathering of soldiers. There was Mullah Khaled on her master's left, and Nasir on his right. Rana lowered her eyes as she rode past the trio, taking the position she had been instructed to without hesitation.

The numbers were one thousand and fifty, as well as a handful of officers. Though the Templars were only five hundred and some, the Muslim army would be laying siege, and this was always an expensive venture. Aubrin's walls were only nine feet high, making the use of siege towers unnecessary. Instead, four huge metal and wood battering rams covered in stretched hides rolled along slowly behind the caravan, pushed by twenty large Arabs each. Rana had never ridden at the head of such a gathering, and she found the experience beyond description. She was close enough to overhear the steady conversation between the officers as they began to ride.

"The scouts have reported that the walls are still holding despite three sieges over the past month. Our soldiers have been successful only in killing those Templars who attempt to break past our lines to bring word to King Baldwin." Nasir was saying.

"Their stores are running low, then." Khaled noted with satisfaction.

Salahuddin shook his head. "This will only make them more desperate. Do not underestimate the abilities of our enemies. I have seen men fight for three weeks without food before, when the situation called for such measures."

"As far as we can tell, no messengers have managed to slip past the guards. No reinforcements have been called for, though the King may send them nonetheless if he was expecting word. We must be ready, my Lord, for anything." Nasir said.

Rana wondered what those walls were made of, that they had been able to hold back the inexorable tides of the Muslim armies for a month. The willing fighters who flocked to the banner of Salahuddin were limitless.

"We will send only a small force against the south wall to begin with, for that is what they will be anticipating. The bulk of our armies should remain behind under cover if the hills until all available troops are called to the south wall. Only when the darkness falls will we send the warriors against the north wall." Salahuddin said softly. Rana was relieved at this tactic. It would mean that her beloved Master and his officers would be far from the danger until well after nightfall, when the advantage would be in favor of the Muslims. They were used to the terrain and the shifting of the sands, the formations of the land surrounding the area. It was child's play to lure out the Templars and force them into a battle in which, too late, they would find themselves hopelessly outmatched.

The riding was difficult for Rana, who was used to walking or to being transported in a wagon with the other female slaves or with the wives, who also sometimes traveled with the caravan of war. Some of the women would stand on the sidelines of the battle with stones in their hands, ready to pelt with rocks any man who dared venture away from the chaos. They would hurl taunts and insults at the enemy and shout praises to Allah to bring courage to their men. And they would drag away the wounded to tend their wounds. Rana had seen this with her own eyes, but as a slave she was not permitted to stand so near to the battle. Only the wives and sisters were given such honor.

Salahuddin's wife was behind in Damascus. He had only married one woman rather than the four allowed by Islamic law, and he seemed to be very devoted to her. When Rana was first given to him, her father had said quite openly that she was strong and intelligent, and would make a good wife for the powerful king should he wish it. She remembered vividly being horrified at this thought when she looked up at him, standing above her in the warm confines of her family's living room. He was so big and fierce-looking, his eyes dark as a hawk's, and he frightened her.

To the dismay of her parents, Rana began to cry.

But Salahuddin won her heart at that moment when he knelt down and took her into his arms, whispering soft words of comfort to the scared little girl. He'd told her that she would be treated well, and that he already had a wife whom he loved very much and he would not force his wife to accept such a beautiful rival as Rana. Then he'd tickled her under her chin and stood up, and she was accepted as a gift and her parents, who already had nine children and another on the way, were given some relief.

That was so many years ago now, and Rana had only met the wife a handful of times. She was a small, quiet woman with beautiful green eyes, a Syrian like Salahuddin, and she'd borne him eight sons. Rana was now old enough to know that being the wife of a man like Salahuddin was exceptionally difficult, as he was away from his family far more often than he was with them. But he would not allow his wife, whose health was now fragile, to travel with the army. His wife, Jamila, had charged Rana with the task of being her surrogate while her husband was away, so that he would know no discomfort. So it was Rana who brought him solace and bathed his feet after a hard day's work. Rana who prepared his meals and mended his clothes. Rana who rubbed his muscles and made him laugh with her jokes. And it was Rana who slept beside him on occasion, though he had never touched her in a sensual manner.

But should he wish her services even in this, she would give to him freely all that she had kept safe these long years, and she would do so with love.

"...ask Rashid to do it." Nasir was saying, and Rana suddenly snapped back into reality again, her wandering mind sharply re-focused by the mention of her new name.

She looked at him in surprise, wondering what he wished her to do, and why he was calling attention to her at all.

"Is this well with you, Rashid?" Salahuddin asked, pulling his horse ahead of her to better gauge her with his eyes. Rana nearly choked on her own tongue, so great was her sudden shock at being regarded by the one man who's attention she was supposed to avoid.

Quickly, and still not knowing what it was she was being ordered to do, Rana nodded and lowered her gaze, pretending to tighten the reins on the horn of her saddle.

"It is decided, then." Salahuddin said approvingly, "Thank you, Nasir. He does look small enough."

"He will do well, master. I will see to it." Nasir said, and there was a hint of tightness in his voice. When Salahuddin rode closer to Khaled to speak with him, Nasir pulled his horse next to Rana's and leaned in slightly.

"You will not fight this day, Rashid." he said softly.

"Why?"

"Because you are badly needed elsewhere. We require information of the inner walls. I can think of no one better suited to slip past the guard on the north wall than one so small as you. We have no other warriors who are as dexterous. This you must do, but do not be discovered. Not only will you give yourself away to our master, you will also risk a great deal more. You will be in the hands of Templars, and you are a young woman. Whatever else would happen, I can promise with near-certainty that you would not leave the place with your dignity intact. You understand what I am saying?"

Rana swallowed hard, trying to calm the surge of panic that rose inside her.

"You mean that they would rape me."

"Yes."

"Why are you allowing me to do this?"

Nasir smiled, his handsome face becoming even more beautiful.

"Sending you into battle would be foolish, as you are untried. But you are perfectly suited to being a scout. And if you should need to fight, it is better that you fight one or two soldiers rather than many all together. You are brave and fast, and I have faith that you will be able to use your skills to our advantage. When we arrive, I will show you what to do. The attack will not occur until we have rested and prepared our strategy."

"And then at nightfall, we strike?"

"You listen well, at least some of the time. Yes. And until then you will rest in my tent. It will not do for you to be among the others. If they should seek to question you, your voice would give you away. And you should not be near them when they are changing for battle. It is not seemly for a young girl to look upon a man's nakedness unless she is married to him. You will, then, hide in my tent and be protected."

"But Salahuddin..."

"Are you mad?!"

Rana looked away, blushing. He was right, of course. But for the past eight years she had attended her Master at every rest, at least when she was close enough to do so. It would be very hard, keeping her distance when he was so nearby and weary from the journey.

"I am sorry."

"This is no game, Rashid. You will do what I tell you if you truly wish to fight as you have said. I can help you in your desires, but only if you are willing to do your part. If you doubt that you can follow my direction, then turn your horse about and slip back to the camp again."

He waited, but Rana of course made no such move.

"I will do as you say, my lord Nasir."

Nasir flashed her another smile.

"See that you do, and this will remain our secret. You will do well this day, I know it."

And the army moved forward, swift and terrible as a rising tide. Some of the men sang as they rode, or shouted takbirs in unison. Khaled kept their spirits high and the flames of their anger fanned by riding among the troops from time to time and yelling to them this or that Qu'ranic ayet. He was magnificent, dressed all in black with the holy name of Allah inscribed on his shoulders in gold, his dark eyes flashing.

Rana dared not raise her voice to join in the shouts, but she whispered under her breath the takbir that guided them all.

"Allahu Akbar. God is great."


	3. Preparations

Preparations

Their arrival, in four smaller groups spaced well apart, was an operation of stealth and discretion. Rana knew so many of the soldiers that went ahead, many of them had been kind to her and treated her with great gentleness back at the main camp, but now rode silently past her horse with hardly a glance.

The entire settling of the army, broken into two base camps for ease of movement, took only an hour or so. Salahuddin himself went with the foremost portion of the army, to better prepare them for the battle they were about to face. Mullah Khaled and Nasir remained with those behind, and they had been charged with the task of readying the second force for their role in the siege Rana did not understand the tactics of war - she was better suited to following commands than to giving them, and so she busied herself with helping the others to set up the small dun-colored tents in stark rows beneath the sheltering swell of the scrub forest. It took very little time, and when she was done she slipped obediently into the tent set aside for Nasir, sitting down with her back to his bunk and closing her eyes.

From the sound of the scouting responsibilities and the cold feeling that caressed the inside of her stomach, she would guess that the task her Master wished Rashid to do was a very dangerous one indeed.

"Insh'allah." she whispered. If God wills it.

Twenty minutes later the tent flap was pushed aside and Nasir stepped in out of the harsh light. He looked wordlessly down at her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, back lit and awesome and slightly intimidating. Rana rose to her feet and removed her helmet, ready and willing to obey the commands she knew were about to come.

Nasir carefully closed the tent and sat down on a low stool, and with a deep sigh began to speak.

"Silence and stealth will be your watchwords. If you are caught in this you will suffer, and your suffering will break our master's heart...not to mention mine. Having said this, I will now give you your task. When the battle begins this night in earnest, you will move ahead of the second force to the very base of the north wall. There is a spire of rock close to the wall, and this you must climb without sound. When you have reached the topmost portion you will make a leap of several feet to the edge of the wall. If you should miss your mark, you will plummet to the base of the wall and in all probability injure yourself. So do not."

Rana bit back a most unbecoming comment and lowered her gaze.

"When you have gained the wall, you will descend the inner face and see what we cannot. The positions of the guards, the thickness of the wall, the places where there are braces set against the wooden doors. Look for weaknesses and strengths. And when you have seen all that you can, you are to return to me and whisper what it is you found. I will then relay the message to Salahuddin. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord. Ana afham."

"Kneel here at my feet."

"Iwa."

She dropped to her knees, staring at the shining bronze tops of his boots, and a moment later felt the warm heaviness of his hand on her head.

"May Allah bless and protect this child. May her steps be swift and quiet as a kitten's, and may her eyes pierce the dark to better serve our objective and ultimately Your will."

Rana closed her eyes, daring to lean a little into his touch. Was it her imagination, or did he shiver slightly? Was it fear for her?

"Keep her close to Your heart, Lord, as we keep her close to ours. In the name of God the merciful, the mighty, protector of the world, I ask protection now for this young warrior. Amin."

"Amin." Rana echoed faintly. She was terrified and excited beyond words, and could scarcely wait to begin the task that could very well lead them to victory, and might even gain Nasir's respect in the process.

She looked up at him, hoping to see something in his eyes that she didn't even dare put a name to in her mind.

And for a moment, it was there.

He touched her face, and it was not the touch of a mentor to his young student. It was the touch a man gives a woman for whom he has desire.

"Nasir? I wish to have words with you." someone spoke from the other side of the tent flap.

It was Mullah Khaled. He was forever springing in unnanounced upon Nasir.

Rana pulled back very swiftly, reaching for her helmet. Her heart was pounding very hard in her chest, and it was difficult to catch her breath. Nasir rose to his feet and ushered her into a corner.

"Sharpen my blade." he instructed, and she fell to the task with a will. A moment later the mullah entered, long black robes coated with dust from their journey. He spared the small soldier in the corner hardly a glance, as was certainly the hope of both Nasir and Rana.

"Once we have taken the city, what is to stop us from adding to the forces swiftly and marching into al-Quds within the next few months?" Khaled asked without preamble. Nasir sighed, gesturing to a chair for his guest.

"You know that our master has an agenda of his own that does not include such hasty moves. He wishes to unite all of the Muslim lands -"

"Which he could do more effectively with a victory of this size to his name! Too long have we waited while our holy places are defiled."

"I agree. I completely agree with your position, and especially with your passion for the furtherance of Islam. But I would urge you to have faith in Salahuddin."

"My faith lies only with Allah."

Nasir closed his eyes, nodding wearily. He and Khaled had not always seen eye-to-eye, but they never had trouble being friends despite this. While the mullah was hot-blooded and fiery, Nasir tended to be calmer and more of a born second in command. He believed deeply in the abilities of Salahuddin, and would grimly follow him to hell and back if necessary.

"You should not be over-hard on the man you have chosen to follow, my friend."

"This is not over-hard in the slightest. I have not even begun to - "

Nasir put his hand on Khaled's shoulder, stopping him.

"You are nervous." he observed.

Khaled sighed, nodding. He was weary of the wait also, and the past few months in particular had been difficult. His father had died, leaving it up to he himself as the eldest son to care financially for his mother and his five sisters, all of whom were unmarried.

"My mother is sending me a wife. She thinks that I have been neglecting my deen in keeping single. Some young village girl named Zainab whom I have never met. I hope that she will not be a burden."

"May she be a blessing to you, my friend." Nasir smiled inwardly at the idea of his solemn companion taking a wife. He glanced over at Rana, her head still bowed to her task.

"What think you of Rana the Bedouin?"

Khaled fixed his dark eyes on the ceiling of the tent, his expression grave.

"She is headstrong and undisciplined, and I pity the man to whom she is given. He will have quite a trying time with the girl."

"You walk the border of cruelty at times, my friend."

"A land we all traverse at need, Nasir. What our master sees in Rana is beyond me. I had thought that he meant to make of her a wife in the beginning, but perhaps he too was put off by her willful nature and bloodthirsty leanings."

Rana tensed, tears filling her eyes at the harsh words of the mullah. It took every ounce of self-discipline in her to keep from raising her head, from looking him in the eye and telling him what she felt. Why would Nasir lead him into such a conversation, knowing that she was sitting right there? Was this little window into the mind of Khaled really worth the pain it caused her?

Nasir must have guessed at her discomfort, for he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"This Zainab...do you know much of her?"

"Only that she is strong and beautiful. My mother tells me that she has been something of a celebrity in the village. Many men have sought her father's permission to marry her, but he was determined that only a holy man would be given the gift of her purity. Her father died suddenly, before he could select a husband. My mother took one look at her and made the arrangements herself with the girl's mother."

"Ah. You are indeed blessed, my friend. Loneliness has sharpened your tongue these past few years. Perhaps the kiss of a fresh young girl will sweeten it once again."

"You amuse no one with your quips, Nasir." Khaled said darkly, and stood up to leave.

Nasir suppressed a grin and offered the mullah his hand.

"Allah keep you, Khaled. I will join you soon."

"I still think we ought to march against the kafir bastards soon." And with that, he left, twitching the curtain shut behind him.

Rana looked up, tears sparkling her dark lashes.

"I did not realize that I brought him so much irritation." she said softly, and Nasir bent down to take his sword from her hands, pausing to run a finger across her cheek with fatherly tenderness.

"Do not take to heart what you have heard, little Rana. Khaled is irritated by everything during these uncertain and trying times."

"He sounded very angry."

"He doubts our master."

Rana's eyes became hard. "My Master is a powerful leader, and it is leaders who win wars. Is it not said that an army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by a sheep?"

Nasir threw back his head and laughed out loud at his.

"Allahu Akbar, little one! You have the wit of a politician. But watch yourself with talk like that. I do not think Khaled would take kindly to the implication that he is a sheep."

"If the wool fits..." Rana grumbled unhappily.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, sir."

Muslim armies are not like other armies. For one thing, they are wholly without fear in the fact of death, for no fate is more glorious than to fall in battle. For another, they move with a single-mindedness of purpose that utterly baffles the opposition. Brother to a brother, unmoving and noble and honorable and grim beneath the flapping green banners. They would fight until torn to pieces, Salahuddin always said, and afterwards the pieces would continue to fight.

Rana lay down nervously on the bedroll next to Nasir's to rest a bit before her task. She closed her eyes against the fading light, listening to the sounds of the first wave making ready to attack. A scant twenty feet from where she lay, her Master was meeting with some of his men. Rana could hear the soft, reassuring tone of his voice even though she could not make out the words.

She wanted to go to him and bury her face in his lap and beg his forgiveness for her incredible act of foolishness.

She wanted Mullah Khaled to be proud of her.

She wanted to be thought of as strong and beautiful like the village girl Zainab, instead of plain-looking and unruly.

But more than anything...Rana wanted to be something more than she was.

Somewhere beyond the next sand dune the Templars were tensely awaiting the next attack. Starving, dirty, exhausted...her woman's heart felt pity for them but was over-ruled by her anger at their presence. Infidels had no place and would never have a place in this land. They did not understand the delicate culture, the hard glittering edge of fearlessness that lay beneath a velvet covering of poetic words. It was a world of honor and discipline and vast unchanging love for Allah and for one another. The only time that the Qu'ran permitted war was in the event of danger for the Muslim way of life. Only when attacked were they allowed to fight back. The Prophet hated the sword, but wielded it when there was great need.

The Europeans had no idea at the start of this war what they would inspire, that much was plain.

Rana's mind drifted, and she closed her eyes.

In the blackness behind her lids she saw the bright sun shining down on the vast and terrible Muslim armies, their swords and spears glinting in the light. Green banners, with the name of Allah sewn in gold. There were the Syrians, grim and determined, and the Persians with their caramel-colored eyes and strong shoulders. Soft-spoken Egyptians, fierce and fearless Palestinians, Arabs from the Gulf region and from the North and from the East. They stood together, brothers under the hot sun, willing to die for the sake of the entire Islamic world. Jerusalem must never be lost. The Prophet, peace be upon him, had journeyed there long long ago by the will of God. It was a sacred place, and the infidels were defiling it with their presence. So what if Sayyidina Isa, Jesus as they called him, had died there? He was a wise and learned teacher, yes. But his message was incomplete. It took The Prophet to finish the tale.

In Rana's mind, the sand was whirling, whirling around the dusty feet of the Christian's prophet. His eyes were brown like all of his countrymen, not blue like in the paintings the Templars hung in their churches. And his hair and beard were dark and full of dust on the long road. He spoke quietly to the men who walked beside him, but Rana could not catch the words. In her dream, she stood by the side of the road ahead of the little party and watched them approach. Just a young girl, her hair wrapped in rough linen and her feet bare, unremarkable and unnoticed. She lowered her gaze, and the men drew parallel with her.

Silence.

The soft footsteps ceased, Sayyidina Isa paused and stood still on the lonely road, staring at the girl who could not look at him. All else faded away.

Something gentle, a hand on her head.

"Courage, little Muslima."

And she dared to look up at him for a moment.

_'His eyes...' _she thought, but there was a sudden rushing sound. The sand flew up all around them, and she fell to her knees in the roaring storm.

In panic, she clutched at his robes and buried her face in the homespun fabric.

Someone was shaking her gently.

Nasir.

"My lord? Is it time?" Rana asked, sitting up immediately. The tent was very dark and she was sweating beneath her clothing. Her hands were wrapped in a fold of Nasir's shirt, and with a stab of embarrassment she released him.

"Forgive me." she said, smoothing the wrinkles hastily. Nasir stayed her hand with his own and leaned closer so that she could make out the gleam of his eyes.

"It is time, Rashid. Are you ready?"

She drew a deep breath and nodded. Her racing heart stilled somewhat in the face of this, the moment of truth. Outside she could hear soft whispers as the second wave prepared itself, and off in the distance there was the unmistakable tragic opera of all-out battle.

Rana rose to her feet and reached for her shoes.

"My lord Nasir, may I ask of you a favor?"

"Name it."

"Pray for me." she whispered. Nasir stood as well, and gently took her face in his hands.

"I have not stopped praying for you from the first moment we met, little Rana." he replied, and stepped away abruptly before his touch could be misconstrued as wanton.

There were no more words. Rana-now-Rashid pulled on her helmet and followed Nasir from the tent. '_Death in battle is a blessing',_ she told herself. Brother to a brother. And one small sister who would not be left behind.


	4. Blood

Blood

Rana was silent as sunlight as she followed behind the scout that Nasir and her Master sent before her, to show her the way. Through the brush, over the rocky no-man's-land, into the shade of the looming walls. Without a word, the man pointed at the spire of rock beside the imposing gray structure before them, the torchlight shining on his handsome dark face for an instant. "There, Rashid. Luck to you." he whispered.  
Then he was gone and Rana was alone with her task.

Such moments made men, or killed them.

She drew in a deep breath and adjusted her helm, pushing it back far enough to survey the seemingly sheer stone before her. Like an expanse of impenetrable fog, smooth and huge and terrifying in its enormity. The wall next to it seemed thirty feet away. But there was no turning back. For good or ill, Rana's destiny lay at the top of that wall. High above her there were torches lit, but only three or four soldiers could be seen walking the parapet. In all probability she would have to face at least one, maybe more. But the weight of Nasir's sword at her hip was comforting, and her fingers itched to hold it in battle and not merely in play.

There was nothing for it. Rana cautiously approached the base of the spire, her ears straining to hear any noise beyond the roaring of the battle on the other side of the city. It was impossible. Screams of the dying, the snap-swish of the Arab archers, the higher whine of the Crusader's arrows, the heavy thumping that signaled to her ears the prodigious use of her people's battering ram. She shook her head.  
The mission would have to be carried out despite the danger, and quickly. It didn't matter that she had very little clue as to what she was doing. It didn't matter that her hands were trembling and slick with sweat and she was worried that she would not be able to find handholds for her fingers. It did not matter - no, not at all - that her body was suddenly feeling a fear like she had never imagined before, and her tongue was frozen and her bowels felt watery and her breath wouldn't come deep or fast enough. What mattered was that, on the other side of that wall and across the city, her Master and his warriors were fighting a pitched battle against a vicious foe, and the information that she was about to gather might just save the lives of hundreds of her brothers.

Rana reached out, brushed her small work-roughened fingers against the cold stone.  
Someone had worked at the surface, chipping and digging to get at the precious flecks of mica, the marks of the miners' tools clearly visible now that she was closer. Visible, and deep.  
She slid her hand into a small hollow and pulled upwards, trying desperately to make no sound.  
She wondered if anyone would be able to hear her heart.  
The stars wheeled overhead, obscured by the smoke from the southern wall, and Rana began to climb. After the initiial shock of seeing the ground drop away by degrees beneath her, she fell to her task with quiet determination. Her belt rattled slightly when she swung herself up to catch hold of another small ledge, but the sound was utterly lost in the furor from the other side of the city. Within ten minutes, she was pulling her shivering form onto the top of the spire.  
The north wall lay before her, a yawning shadowed chasm of perhaps six feet in width separating her from the edge.

_'Allah give me strength.'_ she thought, and gauged the amount of physical propulsion it would take to launch her small body across the space and onto the top of the wall.  
As she pondered this, a sudden movement caught her eye, and she pressed herself nearer to the craggy stone to hide.  
"...can't think why the Saracens aren't using seige towers." one of two guards was saying to the other in a strained voice. His companion, now visible in the torchlight, nodded.  
"They never waste their might on little cities like this. Besides, the walls aren't high enough to make those things useful enough. It's a frontal attack, and if you've noticed they keep killing the riders. Innocent boys, most of them, just trying to get word through. Those dark-skinned demons have no souls. I mean, who would kill a boy?"  
"Some of those savages out there look like boys themselves. But they fight like lions, every one of them. Maybe they're scared of their general."  
"This Saladin, they say he's conquered Aleppo and Mosul already. Do you think-- "  
"Look, he's just a man. And God is on our side. The Saracen demons will be butchered for certain, especially when the new batch of Templars arrives. Then we'll round up the survivors and have us a little party. Care to take bets as to how long the heathen darkies can take European questioning? Eeeeeeeeek!"

And both men laughed. Laughed at the idea of torturing Muslims. Laughed like children.

Rana's hands were shaking again, but this time in anger. Before her quiet mind could even register what it was her body wished to do, she had flung herself at the wall and landed, cat-like, in front of the two chuckling guards. Fire flashed in her eyes, hot Bedouin fire that would never be calmed, not in a thousand years or even a hundred thousand. As the grins faded from the two mens' eyes, they fumbled for their weapons.  
"Holy God! It's -" the shorter one cried, and Rana was flying at him, her helmet coming off, Nasir's scimitar in her hands flashing like the crescent moon, hacking with all her strength. The man hardly had time to utter a scream of pain before he fell dead at her feet, spraying her with his hot pumping blood. She turned to the remaining guard, the one who had insulted her brothers, who had suggested harming them.  
There was no time. His sword was out and he was advancing on her with measured steps. Why didn't he call out and raise the alarm? Were there so few guards watching this wall? Rana jumped back, trying to avoid the crushing force of a well-aimed blow.

"You little rat!" the man hissed at her, then drew up short as Rana moved to the side and the torchlight fell on her hair.  
Her long, earth-colored hair that had spilled free from the fallen helm. In an instant, the guard's look of hate changed into one of amusement and malice.  
"A girl!" he said softly, mockingly. "A little girl dressed like a boy! Stole your brother's armor, did you? Come to see what all the excitement is about?"  
His voice became softer still, his movements slow and hypnotic like a falcon about to strike at a sparrow. Rana backed up to give herself room to swing, a good fierce slashing blow like Nasir had taught her. The beating of her heart was so loud, her terror and rage and bravery and desire to run, RUN FOR ALLAH'S SAKE, warring in her soul.  
Another step back.

"There's no need to bother the others, little girl. You must be scared. Come here, I'll look after you." the man said, and stepped closer.  
Then the guard tower was behind her back, and Rana was shot through with wordless fear as she realized that she had miscalculated the distance and the direction of her movement. There was no room to swing. She shot out her left hand and clawed at his face, his eyes.  
"No! La! Kefia!" she shouted at him, but not too loudly. Not too loud, little Rana, or you will be attacked by more than this one man. Give yourself time, run down the wall and see what must be seen, then down to the spire and away.  
Away! Please God and all the prophets ESCAPE! She knew what would happen if she were caught. And so she scratched like a kitten, like a terrified little animal that has no other way out.  
But the guard was bigger than she, and stronger. He easily caught her hand and pulled her struggling, spitting, furious body into his arms.

To be this close to a man, and to have it be in this fashion, was heart-rending.

"Not like this!" Rana begged, but the guard hauled her back into the shadow of the walkway, kicking his fallen friend's body with his foot to roll it over the edge of the wall. She could feel his loathsome erection through the stinking leather of his breeches, and though she was innocent of all pleasures, she knew what that part of him was for...and what he planned to do with her.  
"Easy now, little Saracen. These grown-up wars aren't meant for girls. But I can show you something that is." still the soft voice, the mock-fatherly tone that seemed somehow more intrusive and awful than screaming would be. Rana kicked at him, bit his hands, tried to swing Nasir's sword at his shoulder, but to no avail.  
She was going to be raped.  
Taken like a whore by this Templar bastard while her noble, beautiful, beloved brothers fell under the Templar swords. Impaled, as her brothers were being impaled. Torn, broken, dishonored.

NO!

Rana ceased trying to pull away, and changing her tactic in a furious burst of energy she threw her weight backwards against the chest of the man holding her. He stumbled back with a grunt and lost his grip on her for a moment. It was all she needed. With a savagery born of pure hate she whirled on him and raised her blade. In that instant, the guard kicked her in the stomach, and Rana the Bedouin fell to her knees.  
No tears. No matter what, do not cry.  
_'Courage, little Muslima.'  
_The man pushed her brutally onto her back and ripped at her pants, yanking them down to expose her naked thighs to the chill night air. No matter how she fought, how hard she bit the hand that went over her mouth, how fervently she prayed for someone to help her, Rana knew what was about to unfold.

"Little Arab bitch. You fight like your big brothers, that's for sure. You people never know when you're beaten."  
He freed that horrible part of himself from his breeches and laid it against her thigh. Rana stared past him and up at the sky, the tendrils of smoke drifting across the stars. She was already so far away in heart that she hardly felt him shift his position, placing himself against the small opening between her calm thighs.  
"Easy now. Easy." her tormentor moaned against her neck as he pushed slowly into her.  
Her neck. And his neck only inches away. Suddenly, in a flash, Rana remembered stumbling across the body of a sheep the wolves had got back home when she was very young. Its throat had been torn out by the ghostly gray beasts, and its blood stained the sand all around. The creature had died alone out there under the burning sky, but at least it had died quickly.

Like a wolf, like a wolf that is starving and must eat soon or die, Rana turned her head and sank her teeth into her rapist's neck, buried them in his flesh until they met in the middle, until his skin tore and hot salty blood filled her mouth.  
With a strangled scream of agony, the guard tried in vain to free himself from her bite. But she held on. She held on as he tried to stand, to pull away, and she was yanked to her feet and covered in blood and saliva and still she held on. The man's hands scrabbled messily against her chainmail shirt, trying to find a grip, trying to get this savage little Arab off of him.

_'That's right. I am a savage.'_ Rana thought angrily. She set her hands against his chest and shoved with all her strength, her teeth ripping a large chunk of flesh and blood and rubbery tendon away from his neck. He couldn't even scream, the blood frothing from the terrible wound on his throat like an artesian well.  
Rana pushed him again, almost fondly, and he stumbled backward and down the stairs of the guards' tower to lie sprawled drunkenly at the bottom. There was no time to think, to evaluate what had just happened. She yanked up her pants, grabbed Nasir's scimitar and her fallen helmet, and sprinted the length of the wall, looking down past the ramparts and the wooden scaffolding to where the gates lay. Three places at least she could see that had been damaged, one of the toward to edge where the west wall met the north. There, that was it.

Hardly pausing for breath, she turned and hurtled back toward the spire, oblivious to the shouting of the soldiers down below who, having discovered the bloody convulsing form of one of their own at the bottom of the stairs, had begun to gather for an assault. In one smooth, powerful leap, Rana cleared the chasm and landed with a thud on the top of the stone, the slippery blood coursing from between her legs soaking through her pants and leaving a dark smear on the gray rock. From there, it was only a scant few minutes until she reached the sand, the arrows of the Templars from the wall above whizzing harmlessly past her and into the darkness. Like a ghost, Rana the slave of Salahuddin slipped back into the brush and was gone.

She arrived some short time later at the small hollow behind the battle lines from which the officers directed the assualt. Bleeding, exhausted and triumphant, she slipped up to stand behind Nasir and Mullah Khaled, wiping the last traces of blood from her lips and face.  
"My lord?" she said in her deepest, gruffest whisper. Nasir whirled around and beheld her there, peering up at him from beneath her helm.  
"Rashid! Excellent!" Relief was evident in his voice, and he took her by the arm to lead her away from the others.

"What befell you?"  
Rana was not ready to reveal the horror of what had just happened. It was still too fresh in her mind, and the knowledge that she was now damaged and no decent man would ever have her as his bride was lighting the tip of her heart on fire. She shook her head and stared at the tops of Nasir's boots.  
"The wall is partially breached where the north wall meets the west, and three hundred yards beyond that to the north there is another weak place. The wall there is shored up with wooden struts, and the mortar between the stones appears to be crumbling." she reported. Nasir squeezed her upper arm.  
"You have seen exactly what we needed, Rashid. Thank you. Now move to the side of the encampment and avoid undue notice. I will escort you back to the encampment when we have taken the wall. Rest now. Are you injured?"  
Again she hesitated, but finally shook her head. The idea of telling him the truth was simply too humiliating to comprehend.  
"No, my lord."  
"Hamdu'lillah, habibiti. I will return." He flashed her a smile and stepped past her, making his way back to Salahuddin and Mullah Khaled. Rana saw him speak to her Master, and could tell by the way the men began to gesture to the battlefield and converse quietly that her information would soon be put to use. Satisfied, Rana stumbled to the perimeter of the scrubland and sat down with her back to a stump and buried her face in her hands. Broken.  
Defiled.  
Raped.  
More than anything, more even than her desire to live another day, Rana suddenly wanted to run to Salahuddin and throw herself into his arms and tell him what had happened. She wanted to feel his heart beating against her cheek and listen to the rhythm of his breathing. She wanted to kneel at Mullah Khaled's feet and beg his forgiveness for being who and what she was, and for all of her actions that led to this awful event. And she wanted to take Nasir's beautiful face in her hands and kiss him long and deep, and tell him without words that she was grateful for all he had done for her, and that she was ready to embrace her destiny. No man would have her now, and that was a tragedy.

But it was also a blessing of sorts, and her heart could not decide which emotion it should feel. Finally, now that the immediate danger has passed, Rana gave in to her weakness, and wept silently in the deepening darkness.


	5. Courage, Little Muslima

Courage, Little Muslima

The morning dawned pale and dry, the stink of blood and dust and death reeking upward toward heaven. The siege of the city had been successful, and the Templars were sent howling back to their king and away from the stronghold. Leaving behind a healthy garrison of warriors to repair the defenses and secure the oasis, Salahuddin and his generals rode at the head of a small group of weary soldiers to return to the more or less permanent camp from whence they came.  
Rana rode silently behind Nasir, careful to remain on the folded shirt she'd draped over the saddle to keep her bruised nether regions from becoming more damaged. She had not dared to inspect herself yet, fearing the worst. Thankfully, Nasir had said very little to her beyond a compliment for her swift completion of the task he'd given her. He had also instructed her to ride ahead as soon as they were within sight of the camp and change back into her abaya and hijab to be ready for her Master when he returned.  
As though Rana would miss the opportunity to be at Salahuddin's side the second he entered his tent. She missed serving him. It had been difficult, these past few days, to have him so near and yet be unable to perform her duties.

War was more gruesome than she had imagined.  
There were hundreds of her brothers who would never see another dawn. And even more who were wounded and bleeding and in pain, struggling along behind their officers. Rana ached for them, her heart begging her to run to their aide, every one, and bathe away the dust and caked blood and soothe their suffering with her gentle touch. Soon enough. Soon enough.  
Nasir watched her out of the corner of his eye, making certain that she was well. Rana knew that his sharp gaze would miss nothing, and so she forced herself to ride straighter, ignoring the throbbing pain between her thighs, the stiffness in her stomach from the place where she'd been kicked. Only a little farther.

Well after the sun had risen to its highest and begun the slow descent toward the Mediterranean, they arrived back at the camp. The first thing Rana noticed was a bright caravan, gay flags flapping incongruously against the surrounding landscape of grim warriors and their tents. The bride, the girl from the village here to be given to Mullah Khaled.  
What a curiosity, to see such a thing on the field of war. Quickly, knowing that she would be expected to greet this new arrival, Rana ducked into a small tent on the outskirts of the camp where she had hidden her clothing. It took a matter of moments to strip off the borrowed armor and tunic and pull on the rough linen abaya and soft cotton hijab.

When she emerged, five minutes later, all that remained of Rashid lay concealed beneath a rumpled sleeping-blanket to be collected by Nasir later. Rana took a deep breath and walked briskly to greet her Master, who was dismounting next to his tent even as she ran towards him with a smile of greeting on her lips.  
"Eziak, ostayze!" she reached up to take his sword and water-bottle, her face an unreadable mask of delight despite the pounding in her chest.  
"Hamdullilah, habibiti, I am well. We struck a blow that will not soon be forgotten. I am weary. Prepare a small supper for myself, Khaled and Nasir, then go to the colored tent there and see if you can be of service to Mullah Khaled's new bride."  
"As you wish, my Master. I am very happy that you are well."

He smiled at her, warmth in his eyes, and allowed his hand to brush against hers for a moment. Rana reveled in the contact, in the knowledge that she had been successful and had given aide to her Master, to her brothers. Her entire soul seemed to swell with pride even as the fear of discovery choked her breathing. It was an odd mixture of emotions, but she did her best to swallow the discomfort. Dinner must be prepared, tea brewed, figs steamed and filled with rice. Her master's bed needed freshening and his clothing patched. Such were the tasks she was expected to perform, and indeed loved to perform.  
Not swordplay. Not scouting. Not biting the throats out of Templar rapists.  
Her stomach gave a little jolt at the memory, and she quickly stepped into the tent and out of the sunshine. Plenty of time to assess the damage later, when she was alone and the whole camp slept. Plenty of time to discover the extent of her injuries, and to decide what her best course of action would be.  
Quietly, and without a fuss, Rana began preparing a meal for the two men she most loved in the world, and one that she certainly cared for...a little.

* * *

Mullah Khaled was distressed. It was not the hard ride that bothered him - he was well used to such things and they no more caused him stress than the bite of a gnat. He was young and strong, his body conditioned to such exertions. No, it was something he could never have trained for that caused his stomach to pinch and his head to ache. His mother had sent him a wife.

"Why?" he had asked of the messenger who delivered the news a month ago. "I am attached to a caravan of battle, I have no time to entertain a silly child! Tell my mother I will not be married under such circumstances!"  
"The girl your mother has chosen is in dire need of your protection, O Wise One. Her father has recently died and she is in danger of being married off to her cousin, a ruthless man by all accounts. It was only your mother's intervention, may the peace and blessings of Allah be upon her, that saved the child's honor. She begs you in the name of Allah to have mercy."  
"Oh for - "  
"And she has also authorized me to convey the greetings of the girl directly to you in the form of this letter." The man held out his dusty hand and offered a scrap of carefully rolled parchment to the Mullah.

"A letter? From an unmarried woman? Haram!"  
"All the same, Wise One, it is your mother's wish that you receive it in good faith. I am to wait until you have read it to return to her with your answer."  
The messenger's face was impassive, but a secret glint of humor in his eyes spoke a thousand words about how he felt at witnessing the Mullah in such a state. Khaled fought down a stab of irritation and turned his black eyes to the paper before him.  
He took it.  
"Well enough. I shall read the letter, and you will convey my refusal back before nightfall." Having thus spoken, he spun on his heel and retreated to his tent, where he unrolled the paper in the lamplight and began to read.

_"I convey to you my greetings, Mullah whom I have never met. I have guessed, from your mother's few words about you and your general reputation in the area, that perhaps my being pressed upon you as a bride is mildly disconcerting. I understand. The constraints of my station, not to mention my current delicate position, do not allow me to demure from this arranged marriage. But before you reject me out of hand, as I am sure you feel inclined to do, let me make you this proposal. Send for me. Send for me with all the outward intention of a man who wishes very much to procure a new bride. If, having met me face to face you find me not to your liking, then at the very least I will have the opportunity to make my way to Jerusalem. From there, alone, I will make my escape from the intended ravages of my foul and thrice-damned cousin Omar. I swear to Allah, I will spill my own blood on the sands before I will submit to his touch. If you do me the kindness of giving me a pretext for leaving this place, then I will be indebted to you forever. I await your answer, and may Allah bless you no matter what you decide. Yours in faith, Zainab."_

Khaled set the letter down, then picked it up and read it again twice more. His face was thoughtful, impassive. His lips formed the words 'mildly disconcerting', 'spill my own blood', 'escape'. The girl had spirit, and was not afraid. But there was still a demure respect evident in every word. The perfect amalgamation of proper Islamic submission mixed with a smoldering fire of determination. His dark eyes flashed. Damn the woman, she'd cleverly plucked at the one part of him he could not ignore...his sense of honor. Turning, he stormed out of the tent and back to the waiting messenger. He pulled out a scrap of parchment and angrily scrawled an acceptance on it, then folded it and addressed it to his meddlesome mother.  
"There, take this. Tell my mother to send the girl." He pressed a coin into the messenger's hand, "And wipe that smirk off your face."

Now, some time later, she was here. The feisty little Muslima with the clever tongue. He was a mere hours from meeting her, and was disconcerted to find that his stomach was clenched with anticipatory tension. Why? The prospect of war and death didn't faze him in the slightest, in fact he welcomed the prospect of martyrdom. But for some inexplicable reason the idea of coming face to face with Zainab the village girl filled him with nervousness, like a host of moths had been freed in his chest. He turned his gaze down to the steamed figs on the plate in front of him, and he picked at them moodily.  
"Are they not to your liking, Mullah Khaled?" Rana asked, pouring more juice into his glass. He looked up at her, noting with disapproval that a few strands of her hair were showing down one side of her face. No matter how difficult this Zainab might be, at least she did not seem as unruly and hopeless as the Bedouin child.  
"They are fine, Rana. I am still weary from the journey. Tuck in your hair."  
Nasir snorted a laugh, quickly suppressed, as Rana blushed and tugged at her hijab. He knew what was putting his friend on edge, and it amused him to no end. He reached over and helped himself to the untouched figs.  
"You should eat something anyway, Khaled. You'll need your strength if you're to perform properly on your wedding night." he chuckled. The Mullah was about to angrily retort when Salahuddin interrupted their conversation.  
"I think these words are not appropriate for the present company, my friends. Come, let us discuss lighter things. The sky watchers tell me that there will be rain soon. It is a timely thing, a sure sign that Allah watches us always. The wells have been running dry lately."  
"Ah...yes, my master, they have." Nasir agreed. He cast a gentle look at Rana, walking back to the table with a tray of lamb.  
It was then that he noticed it.  
She was limping.  
He caught her eye, worry creasing his forehead.  
"Rana, a word with you before you go to tend the girl. My horse seems to have damaged his left rear leg, and will need the wound cleaned properly. The physicians are busy elsewhere."  
"As you wish, sir. I shall see to him."

Dinner passed swiftly, all of the men lost in their own thoughts. Rana hovered at the fringes as became a woman, filling cups when they emptied and making certain that plates were removed when empty. She tried not to meet Nasir's gaze, wondering what if anything she would say to him. She could not lie...the very thought made her face feel hot. But to tell the truth also brought her a measure of inner pain. And so she waited in an agony of indecision for the meal to end and the inevitable question to be asked. The shadows grew shorter as the world coasted toward noon, and finally Rana found herself walking slowly in the direction of the makeshift horse enclosure a few steps behind Nasir. When they were alone, he turned to look down at her.  
"Rana, you are limping. What happened?"  
She didn't meet his eyes.  
"I fell, that is all. Please do not trouble yourself."  
Something in her demeanor bothered him. After so many years of studying the actions and motivations of others in the course of strategic planning, Nasir had gained the uncanny ability to detect lies when they were presented to him, no matter how serious or benign. Rana was keeping something from him.  
But for the life of him he could not imagine what it might be.  
He touched her gently on the cheek, a highly improper thing to do under the circumstances.  
"Rana, look at me." he whispered, and the startled girl raised her brown eyes to meet his.  
She was lovely, he thought, in her own way. Sweet and childlike and innocent...his heart gave a little jolt as he realized how gravely he had endangered that very innocence not too long ago.  
"Rana, little _bata_. If you are hurt, tell me."

Those dark eyes filled with tears suddenly, and she pulled away.  
"I...I am well. I must go, to see to Khaled's wife. She must be exhausted from her journey. I should help her adjust to her new surroundings, it is only fitting - "  
"The young woman is fine. From what I have gathered from Khaled she is more than capable of handling herself for a little while. Is there something you wish to tell me?"  
Rana shook her head mutely, tears coursing down her cheeks. A breathless moment passed, each one wishing desperately to see into the other's mind.

But it passed, and Rana found her strength. She turned away from Nasir's gentle eyes and fled between the tents, running without thinking, without stopping, until she found herself standing before the colored pavilion. Trembling, her heart a miasma of confusion and fear, she reached out and pulled aside the curtain.


	6. The New Wife

The New Wife

There were many oil lanterns lit, and Rana's eyes took a few moments to adjust to the blaze of golden fire that greeted her. Sitting on a small cot in the center of the tent was a single figure, a young girl with her hands folded in her lap. She was beautiful.  
Rana bowed.  
"I am Rana the Bedouin, sent here by my Master Salahuddin to care for your needs. Have you eaten?"  
The girl looked up at her, glittering dark eyes inscrutable. She said nothing for a few moments, then patted the bunk beside her. Rana, uncertain of her place, moved forward and sat on the edge of the small cot, waiting for the girl to speak.

A minute or two passed in silence. Rana was just about to rise to her feet and leave this stranger to her thoughts when the girl beside her spoke.  
"What do you know of the Mullah?"  
Rana carefully weighed her words before speaking.  
"He is very...disciplined...in the ways of the Shariah."  
"Is he an intelligent man?"  
"None would deny it."  
"Is he very handsome?"  
"Incontrovertibly, miss. The eyes of even married women follow him secretly when we pass through the city."  
"Not always an indication. It is said that great physical beauty often masks a rotten heart. Still..."  
"He is a good man! Last month he brought in a starving dog and fed him from his own plate. Three years past he stood in front of a beggar woman to keep young ruffians from harming her. And he comforted a blind man on the road from Damascus. He is a remarkable man." Rana felt compelled to defend her teacher. He was not always so cutting as he had been of late. Rana put it down to profound isolation from females, the stress of war and her own budding femininity. No doubt the Mullah felt that she was in need of a firmer hand these days.

The girl turned to take a long look at Rana. Her eyes were very dark, and her lashes were long. Not even the slightest wrinkle marred the perfect smoothness of her face, no frost touched her hair, and yet she seemed somehow older than Rana by decades.  
"My name is Zainab."  
"I am - "  
"Rana. So you said."  
Rana looked away, feeling suddenly very crude and backwards next to this elegant young woman. Her manners were polished and worldly while Rana's were rough and countrified. She felt a blush deepening in her cheeks. Zainab touched her hand.  
"It is a lovely name." she said gently, and their friendship was begun.

Rana spent her morning caring for the new bride, bringing her water to wash with and lots of food to relieve the fatigue of her journey. She discovered that Zainab was a very intelligent and deep-thinking girl. She even knew how to read and write in four languages. She was also very kind, and an excellent listener. Rana found herself telling Zainab a great deal more than she told anyone else.  
"Do you remember much of your parents?" Zainab was asking. Rana shook her head.  
"Bits and pieces. I remember my father's laugh and the rough fabric of our tents. I know my mother had black hair that was so long she could sit on it and that I had several brothers and sisters. I think I recall having a cat at one time. But it is all fuzzy, all muddled until I was given to my Master."  
"Are you his lover?"  
It was a stunningly direct question for an Arabic girl to ask. But Zainab showed no sign of embarassment. She watched Rana carefully as she stitched a hem on Zainab's pale rose traveling cloak.  
Rana sat back on her heels, surprised.  
"I am not."  
"Then you are a virgin?"

"I..." She didn't know how to answer. What was she, exactly? If she was broken, she was not a virgin any longer. And the blood proved that she was broken. But to admit to being anything less than intact was to invite a stoning. What to say? Allah strikes dead the liar. Rana cast about for an evasive answer. Zainab seemed to sense her discomfort, and spoke up quickly.  
"I am sorry to ask such questions. It is just my own curiosity. Every bride, on her wedding night, wishes to know what lies before her. I was simply hoping to gain a measure of insight. Have you any idea?"  
Rana relaxed.  
"Oh yes, I have spoken with some of the wives and the dancer a few times about physical pleasures. Most of the wives speak as though it is unpleasant but necessary, something to be endured for your husband. Only Mahana the dancer seems to enjoy the act. She claims that the Egyptians make the most elegant lovers, but for pure stamina the prize must go to the dark-eyes sons of Palestine. She speaks with much knowledge, I think."

"My goodness! She is very free!"  
"I know! But there are always men who wish to lie with her no matter how much experience she has in the field. She is not particularily beautiful, and her hips are too wide, but she is warm and smells like cinnamon and there is always a smile on her lips."  
"I shall have to remember that, about the smile I mean. Sometimes I look too dour, I am told."  
They were whispering like children, giggling slightly over the improprieties of Mahana with poorly disguised envy. Rana impulsively reached out and clasped her new friend's shoulder.  
"I think you will make an excellent wife, Zainab. I really do. You are beautiful and intelligent and you seem to be very gentle. I wish you luck, and, inshallah, many sons."  
Zainab blushed.  
"When I am ready, and not a moment before. If he is expecting a silent slave-girl for a wife, he is mistaken. But I will care for him well, and love him with every part of my soul. He is kind to have allowed me to come."

Rana had no reply to that. She wondered uncomfortably whether or not the Mullah would react kindly to the idea of a strong-willed wife. But for her part, Rana was very much enjoying the self-assuredness that Zainab displayed. It was an alien thought to her. She tugged her hijab a little tighter and smiled, rising to her feet.

"Shall I bring you some food? Prepare a bath, perhaps? I nknow the field of war is hardly a place for a high-born woman of quality, but I have discovered a few ways to make the experience more comfortable. I would gladly share them with you."  
Zainab smiled back.  
"Perhaps later. For now, I think I only wish to brood in peace for a bit. And you must be exhausted yourself."  
Rana paused, feeling cold.  
"Why would you say that?"  
"I would say that to any woman who came in red-cheeked from the wind a scant fifteen minutes after the return of the war-party with horsehair under her fingernailes and blood over her eye, walking with a limp and smelling of smoke and secrets. I have a feeling we are more like than you realize, my friend."  
Rana, shocked and a little impressed, bowed shortly and turned to go. Before she left she turned back for a moment and fixed the young girl with here eyes.  
"You will keep your guesses between us?"  
"They are only guesses, as you have said. It is forbidden to spread rumors. And I like you."  
Rana smiled awkwardly and fled through the curtains, her heart beating a staccato rhythmn in her chest with the unnerving potency of what had just happened.

She carefully washed her face in a small bucket set aside for ablutions next to the rear of the tent and stepped in to care for her master. He sat alone at the wooden table, reading a worn and much-loved Qu'ran that Rana knew had been given to him by his grandfather. She came forward into the room, pulling the tent flap closed behind her, and knelt down at his feet, her head bowed, awaiting his attention.  
"Habibiti, how do you like the young woman? Will she be an appropriate match for our mullah?" Salahuddin asked, setting the book reverently aside and turning to regard her. Rana looked up into his eyes and smiled.  
"She is everything I am not."  
He laughed and beckoned to her to come closer. Taking her face gently in his hands, the battle-worn Prince of the Desert looked upon her with more pride and love and understanding than she had ever received from anyone else in her entire life. Rana felt a pain as keen as that of childbirth somewhere deep inside her at the knowledge that she was keeping something from him. But she held her peace.

"My Master...I feel unwell." she said softly. It was terribly true. Her stomach ached and the places where she'd taken blows from the weapons of the infidel were sore and pinched her. She was badly in need of rest, as they all were. But as a woman she was expected to serve the men first and herself second. Only illness or injury would excuse her from her duties, but they were valid excuses and never ignored. Salahuddin looked concerned. He passed his left hand across her brow, feeling for sweat. A little moisture from her hasty face-washing rubbed off on his hand, and he shook his head.  
"My poor child. You may be feverish. Perhaps these long days without a breeze have taken their toll. Please, I beg of you do no more for today. Rest. Rest and drink cool juice. I will send for one of the physicians."

Not a physician! He might wish to examine her, and then the truth of her injuries might come to light. And perhaps more.  
Rana took her master's hand in hers and pressed it to her heart.  
"Please, ostayze, I need no physicians. Let them look after those truly in need. I am certain my illness is temporary. Fatigue, as you have said, and the fact that we've had little breeze for days now. But I would welcome your offer of rest. I shall go to the women's tent."  
"No, habibiti. I will respect your refusal of the physician, but I insist that you rest nearby, where I can look upon you and be certain you are well. Too many of the women are at their time. It would be unhealthy for you to be around them when they are unclean and you are ill. You may use my bed."  
Rana bowed her head in assent, unwilling to argue. At least she would not be examined. She stood up and moved to the very back of the tent, stepping behind a small curtain to remove her outer wear. She could hear her master moving about in the main part of the tent, readying a place for her to lie down and preparing a drink of juice. His kindness toward her, a slave, caused tears to unexpectedly spring into her eyes. She felt rotten for concealing her adventure from him, but a strange sort of peace settled over her then, along with a stab of pride.

She had helped! She had helped to win the skirmish, and quite possibly saved the lives of hundreds of her brothers. Loss and sorrow turned to grim pride, and when she emerged from the back it was with a sense of dignity. She looked at her Master carefully, with deep love, and suddenly understood him better than ever before.  
"Master." sha said softly. There was a tone to her voice that she had never heard before. He looked up at her and seemed to recognize the change as well. At least, his eyes were steady and kind, and there seemed to be a hint of pride in their fathomless black depths.  
"Habibiti. Do you wish to tell me something?"  
"I do."  
"Is it a confession?"  
"Of a sort, my beloved Master."  
He sat down on a small chair next to the bed and motioned her to come to him. She did so, but instead of falling at his feet the way she usually did, she lowered her aching body to recline on the bed. Her heart was thumping in her chestso loudly that she was surprised Salahuddin could not hear it.  
He looked her over with his customary slow diligence, noting the flush in her cheeks and the way her hands were shaking. His expression softened.  
"Tell me what troubles you, child."  
"I want to fight."  
"We have discussed this, Rana. Your place is not on the field of war."  
"I ask only for the chance to assist. To scout for information, perhaps to spy. I could be useful to you, more useful than I am now."  
His voice became soothing, and he touched her cheek gently. "I know the fires of youth burn hot, my little Rana. No doubt you would make a fine scout...if you were born a boy. But I need you here."  
"Why, my Master and my king?"  
"I am old, my child, old and growing older. My sweet wife is far away in safety, and the comforts of a household are denied me but for you. You, who brings me food and water and who rubs the weariness from my shoulders after the battle is done. You, who sits with me in the night when my dreams are full of pain and I cannot find rest. You, little Rana, who delights my eyes with your gentle beauty and my ears with your sweet singing. I have been blessed with your servitude. I have come to love you as dearly as ever an old man loves a young woman."  
Rana felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and she said no more. If she had been more bold, she would have taken her Master's face gently in her hands and kissed him. But lines such as these were seldom crossed, and never during the day.

She contented herself with touching his shoulder.  
"I am yours to command." she whispered, and in doing so made a silent vow to refrain from any more battle forays.

But later, after her Master had fallen asleep and she lay awake watching the shadows thrown by the moon against the side of the tent, she remembered the look of pride in Nasir's eyes. The feeling of his hands on her body, fastening her armor. The rush of power she felt when she pushed the dead guard from the wall.

There was nothing for it. Silently she slipped from her bed and moved toward the tent flap. A moment later, there was another shadow against the fabric in the moonlight, and she crept quietly as any scout worth the name across the camp.

And into Nasir's tent.


	7. The Truth Emerges

The Truth Emerges

Nasir was asleep, sprawled across his bed and half uncovered by the blanket. Rana paused to take in the sight of him in the pale dusty moonlight, his bare skin seeming to glow like those far dunes that the light was always last to leave. Weary from battle, from days upon countless days of dry sand and searing sky and armor rubbing against his flesh in the same place over and over again, he rested. But it was a fitful rest. Just as her Master's always was. No servants came to Nasir's tent. He preferred to care for himself. No dancing girls, no feminine attention of any kind. There was only his armor on the stand, his clothing folded against the far wall, an empty plate at a table set for one, all the marks of loneliness and single-minded attention to his duty as the second in command of the armies of Salahuddin.

Rana pulled the tent flap closed behind her, shutting out the moon and the breeze and the whole camp as it sighed and shifted and moaned behind her. She moved forward and fell to her knees beside his bed. A terrible longing filled her heart, a desperate thirst as great as that of a desert traveler dying in the heat of the afternoon. His lips, parted slightly as he breathed, were the only oasis in all of her small world. She leaned forward, meaning only to taste them, and suddenly found herself kissing this man whom she had loved for so long with all the passion of her heart.

In the dim confusion of sleep, Nasir's arms went around her and drew her against him with all the intensity and need of a small boy clutching at his mother, and she gladly pushed further into the soothing circle of those arms as though her life depended on prolonging the moment as much as possible. She nuzzled against his neck, finding the place just behind his ear that she had always longed to kiss, and pressed her lips to it once, twice, three times. As if in a dream, he whispered her name with such love and desire that her heart swelled in her chest to hear him.

And then he awakened fully.

"Rana..." he whispered in confusion, then again, "Rana?", in mounting shock. He sat up, drawing away, horror in his expression. Rana did not move, laying partially on his bed and watching him with wide eyes. The full implications of her presence in his room, the taste of her on his lips, his heart thumping wildly in his chest and the sweet scent of her hair driving him to distraction all melded together in an unrelenting riot of emotion. He drew a deep breath.

"Please do not be angry, my lord. I did not intend impropriety when I came to you." Rana said softly. Her hands were shaking, but it was not from shame or fear. Her voice did not quake and her eyes were steady, a fact that Nasir noted in some abstract way. He passed a hand through his hair, unable to think. And then, against all odds and more horrible than either of them could imagine, there was a soft sound outside.

The tent flap rustled.

"Nasir, I must speak with ..." Mullah Khaled said, walking in unannounced.

He stopped dead, staring at the two figures on the bed. His eyes passed from Rana to Nasir, Nasir back to Rana.

No one moved.

A silence darker than the night crushed them all. The holy man stared at them in horror.

"What is this?" he whispered. Nasir shook his head, hastily pulling his shirt on to cover his bare chest.

"It is not as it appears."

"And yet, somehow I believe it is _exactly_ as it appears! I would not have thought either one of you capable of this...this.." Khaled was so angry, so utterly outraged at finding the servant of his master and the second in command in flagrant violation of Shariah law and common decency that he was incapable of finishing the sentence. Rana bowed her head, a fierce anger welling up in her chest. She bit the tip of her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

"Go! Now! I will speak with you regarding this incident in the morning." Mullah Khaled told her sharply.

"I am a slave! What laws am I breaking?!" she demanded suddenly.

"Your virtue is to be kept for your husband! Your husband! Not to be squandered on pleasures of the flesh before you are lawfully given!"

"Given? Like a horse or a mule? I have selected the man to whom I wish to give this gift, and you - "

"Rana!" Nasir cried out in shock. Both the Mullah and Rana ignored him, glaring instead at one another. It was the first time she had ever taken a stand against so powerful a religious figure, indeed against anyone at all save the soldier on the wall. Every cell in her body bade her to back down, run away and hide in the safe haven of her Master's arms, but she steeled herself and refused to flinch.

"This lawlessness is how you repay your master Salahuddin?" Khaled eviscerated her with his words, icy and almost whispered. His black eyes flashed with barely contained rage, and it was only respect for their king that kept him from physically harming her. In the past, corporal punishments were carried out by him, but only under the direction of their master. Knowing this, Rana raised her chin a notch.

"If you wish me to remain silent and bow my head like the rest of the women here then you will continue to be as displeased with me as you have been thus far. But I will not grovel!"

"Child, not yet a woman, you do not understand what it is you are doing." Khaled's voice softened slightly as he looked at her, so small and unassuming in the halflight.

"We have done nothing, Khaled. For all of me the girl is still a virgin, wa'Allah el azim." Nasir promised. Khaled shifted his gaze from the resolute, fierce gaze of Rana to Nasir's equally composed face.

"If that is so then neither of you will have anything to worry about. But she will be checked by the physicians thoroughly before we decide this matter. You are aware of the penalty?"

Nasir threw back the covers and rose to his feet, his dark eyes flashing.

"Before I allow you to have her stoned I will kill you myself, Mullah. And Salahuddin will have none of it, as you well know."

"Threats will not avail you, Nasir. No man - or woman - is above the Law. Rana, come with me. I will return you to your tent and we shall deal with this disaster at first light. Good night, Nasir." It was said firmly, all the authority of a powerful holy man and a respected member of the upper echelon adding weight to the words. Rana hesitated a moment, but finally succumbed to the compelling hand of Khaled on her arm. Nasir could only watch helplessly as she was drawn from the tent, his confusion now complete. Poor fellow...he still had no idea what had happened.

The moment they were beyond the reach of watchful eyes or ears, Khaled whirled on her.

"Why?" he demanded. Rana bit her lip. She'd never had trouble telling him the truth before, so why was this time so damned difficult?

"I could not rest. I went to his tent to discuss my fears regarding battle and death, but he was sleeping. I went to my knees beside his bed to wake him and...and..."

"And?"

"And I kissed him."

"You were laying across his bed, Rana! There was more than a simple kiss involved! Do you have any idea how terribly haram, forbidden, your actions were, not to mention his?! Even if you are telling the truth and you have done nothing more, you have still earned a very severe punishment!"

"What about Mahana? She goes to the tents of half the men here and she is not treated this way!"

"The dancer's actions, while immodest and wanton, are at least carried out discretely. The woman is barren at any rate, and well past the age of youth. Your indiscretions will be looked upon far more harshly than hers."

"I did nothing!"

Mullah Khaled raised his hand and slapped her sharply for her insolence, then gave a great sigh and roughly took her by the arm, pulling her against his chest so abruptly that it knocked the breath from her. Rana was stunned. He had never, never done such a thing before, she had never been this close to him, and it was with true pain in his voice that he next spoke to her.

"You are disrespectful and impossible, child. Allah protect you from yourself. My God, my God...what can I do? To expose your actions tonight would be a disaster."

Rana said nothing, an ache in her chest growing ever greater as she realized that, for all his bluster and bullying, Mullah Khaled actually cared for her and did not want to see her harmed or disgraced. She clung to him like a little girl, fighting back tears, and suddenly found herself speaking in a great rush of words.

"I am sorry, I am so sorry, ana asfa begad! I saw him sleeping there and I could not stop. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen! I have loved him from the very first, I have dreamed of him and cried for him and whispered his name in my prayers. I am weak! Weak and frightened and injured but it was not him who injured me and the soldier who did is dead and the wall was weakened but I saw and the armor was heavy and I rode behind you and I was terrified and there was so much blood but I fought! I have killed, Mullah Khaled! I have killed!"

He pulled away, holding her at arm's length, his eyes wild and searching.

"What?! What is this about a soldier?! What have you done, child? By Allah WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" He shook her, hard, and her teeth chattered. Rana sank to her knees in the sand, drawing the Mullah down with her.

And in a great outpouring of whispered agony, she revealed all to him. The horror was naked on his face as he listened to her. When she reached the part about being raped by the soldier on the wall, he suddenly held his fingertip to her lips.

"Stop. Rana, stop. This is more serious than you can imagine. If Salahuddin were to hear of it, he would most certainly turn his rage to Nasir. And then to you."

"My Master would never hurt me!"

"You have never tested his mercy this greatly before. Show me."

Rana did not understand his order. She shook her head, bewildered.

"Where the soldier hurt you. There is no time, and we cannot alert the physicians. They would surely tell the Sultan. You may trust me."

Rana was mortified, and she looked away.

"I...I bled." she whispered, her tears starting again. Khaled nodded, his eyes gentle.

"The damage may have been partial. Please trust me, little one. I will not hurt you. I am not like the Templars."

She hesitated, then pulled up her linen dress slightly, feeling the cool air against her thighs. It was a strange and surreal feeling, lying back on the sand while the Mullah gingerly explored her. She kept her eyes on the patient moon and the dancing stars, trying very hard not to shy away from his touch or, worse yet, take pleasure from it. When it was over, he pulled her back up and into his arms, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Little Rana, you have been lucky. The injury was not complete. You are still a virgin."

Rana felt all the tension drain out of her body, and she sagged against him.

"Are you angry with me?"

"Extremely!"

"Will you forgive me?"

"Are you planning on repeating this?"

She was silent, thinking.

"Rana, I will have your answer."

"I am tired. Ana ta'abana."

"_Rana_." There was a warning in his voice. She looked up at him in the moonlight, his stern eyes and perfectly trimmed beard, the way his black curls fell onto the smooth brow.

"Khaled, what if my actions are what will win this war? What if there is still a part left for me to play? Allah does not move our souls unless there is a reason, and I have long desired to serve as more than a slave-girl."

Now it was his turn to be silent. He thought for a long moment.

Finally he rose to his feet, helping her to stand as well.

"I will pray on this, and speak with Nasir. But you are to remain in your place and control your emotions and especially your passions. Calm yourself. Pray often, and come to me with your troubles as you used to."

"Iwa."

"Even in the middle of the night. If you are having a spiritual crisis, I am here for this purpose."

"Thank you, Mullah Khaled. There are times when you are kind."

"There are times when you deserve it."

"Do you care for me?"

Khaled paused, looking down at her. His face softened.

"I do, Rana. Very much."

She slipped her hand into his and leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling small and lost.

He led her quietly to her Master's tent, squeezing her hand before releasing her.

"I forgive you." he whispered, and turned back in the direction of Nasir. Rana watched him go, then silently padded over to her Master's bed and lay down beside him again. He stirred slightly in his sleep, and she touched his arm with great love and respect.

"I would die for you, my Master, my heart, my love. If my blood can win even a small victory for you, then I will shed it all. I swear this before Almighty God, and before you who are my god on this Earth." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his shoulder, a fierce love burning in her chest as she did so.

"My soul may be consigned to hell for all eternity after I am dead for what I have done, but in this life it belongs only to you, great Salahuddin. I am yours."

Laying half-awake in that place between sleep and consciousness, he heard her.


	8. Virgin's Tears

A/N - WARNING! This chapter is not appropriate for everybody! The more astute of you will realize that this is exactly what I had planned from the very start, so please don't attack me after you read it. Rana was never meant to be just another fluffy character immersed in a clear-cut, obvious romance. I'm turning the heat way, way up and making things difficult. Having said that, I hope you like it... (fingers crossed)... I love my readers. - Noble Rot

(Oh, and anyone who thinks that he's not sensual needs to go re-watch the film. That's your homework, children. Class dismissed.)

* * *

The Virgin's Tears

Rana was awakened early the next morning, even before the dawn prayer. She was on the floor, with only a dim recollection of stumbling out for water and returning to lay on her pallet instead of in the bed.

The sense of eyes upon her sleeping form stirred some half-forgotten Bedouin instinct, and she sat up with a start.

Her Master lay on his side, looking down at her with the softness of sleep still touching his features, and in the barest of breezes from the slightly opened tent flap his iron-colored curls moved gently against his brow. Rana could hardly meet his eyes, and he had noticed.

"Taley-an." He said softly. "Come here."

And Rana did as she was told, moving to lay next to him in his bed. Beneath the covers this time, against his body in the warm darkness.

She did not tremble.

Her love for this man grew in measure and power every day that she spent in his service, and the lies and deceit that had been slowly building a wall between them were no match for the tenderness she felt. In this raw hour before the sun rose, she looked into his dark eyes and felt that no secret could ever be more important than keeping her soul open to him.

"I love you." she whispered. Salahuddin, disciplined and rigid as he was, nevertheless reached out and touched her face with his hand. His gaze was incredibly kind.

"Tell me, little bata. What is it? You have been behaving strangely since I returned from Aubrin."

Rana bit her lower lip and leaned against her Master's chest, listening to his heartbeat and breathing in the scent of horse and armor oil and warm, clean flesh. The smell of a Muslim warrior. A _warrior_. She knew then, suddenly in the deepest part of her heart, that had she been born a man she would already have died gloriously on the field of battle, so great was her passion.

She could feel the pulse in his neck against her temple, and without thinking she raised her lips to the place. Never, never before had she dared. But now the night was velvet-smooth all around them and no eye watched. There was no Khaled here to interrupt. He would never dream of walking unannounced into the Sultan's tent in the small hours before dawn.

Rana's small trembling hand touched her king's chest, finding the edge of his shirt and sliding under it to feel the warmth of his skin. She was caressing that smell and that lifestyle and that dream as much as she was touching her Master and the man she had served with all of the strength in her soul for so many years. He did not stop her, and she tasted the sweat on his skin with the tip of her tongue. Rana desperately wanted the life of a fighter. This was the only way she could touch it. Her fascination with Nasir, the feeling that she had taken for simple childish desire, it was growing again. It was not desire in the way that women usually felt such things. It was a lust for the life, for the armor and the scimitar, the crescent embroidered on the banners that flapped high above them. Rana was turning into something completely unlike the young girl she had once been. A lioness stirred in her heart, and she nuzzled against Salahuddin's throat with her teeth, a low growl rising from her lips. Devour, her heart murmured, devour that life. She pressed her entire body against his in a manner that she had never dreamed of before, and was surprised at how perfect and good he felt, as though they were the last two pieces in some beautiful and intricate puzzle.

If her Master was offended by this behavior, he gave no sign. Gracefully, he pulled back and stilled her with his hand. Her heart was beating furiously, and he felt it.

"Rana," he whispered, his voice deep and gentle, "Rana, habibiti. Breathe slowly. Relax, child. Relax."

"Master..."

"I understand, little one. I was young once myself, many years ago. It is natural. I am not angry. But you must calm yourself. I know that you missed me, but this is not the way to show it. Not with me, habibiti. You are far, far too young. And the field of battle is hardly the place. Hold back the feeling for now. If it is still there in two years, we shall see, child."

Rana did not speak. He was misunderstanding the nature of her desire. She was not some lustful young thing, awakening to sexual feelings for the first time. This was different, darker, more elemental. Had she still believed the half-remembered tales from her mother about the demons that walked the earth and drank the souls of men, she would have thought instantly that such a creature had taken over her heart.

The path was clear.

Life or death, punishment or praise, forbidden or permitted...it no longer mattered. Rana was born anew in the darkness beside Salahuddin, and the glitter of her eyes in the wan moonlight told her Master all these things in a single glance. His expression changed. Something of the darkness passed from her to him, and he propped himself up on one elbow to better regard her.

"I went to Nasir's tent." Rana confessed. Her voice was full of emotion, but it was not shame.

"And what did you do there?"

"I kissed him."

"That is all?"

"Mullah Khaled walked in. He was very angry and he forced me to leave. He examined me away from the tents where no one could see us, to be certain that I am still a virgin. He found that I am and released me."

Salahuddin thought a moment, looking down at her.

"Why did you do this, Rana? Do you no longer fear my anger?"

"I want to _be_ him. I want to be you. I want to be Mullah Khaled. And I will _always_ fear your anger."

"You cannot become a man by committing an indecency with one."

"I know. But I wanted to taste him. I love him, Master. And I love you."

"In a different way, child. There are many kinds of love."

"No," Rana said, sounding for a moment like a woman and not a little girl. She fixed him with her large, dark eyes, "I love you the same way. I always have. You know this, my Master. Feel my heart."

Salahuddin brushed her damp hair away from her sweating brow, disconcerted. He did not know quite how to proceed.

"Are you going to have me punished?"

"You have earned far more than a simple flogging, Rana! I do not know what to do with you!"

She was silent for a moment.

"With deepest respect, my Master, my king, if you must reprimand me I beg you to do it yourself. I would rather be beaten by you than caressed by another man. But when you have finished I will still long for battle. The fire will not leave me."

"It is not so simple, child." Salahuddin said firmly, but in his mind, he was remembering the time so long ago when his own face had worn the same stubborn, fevered expression that hers was now.

When he was very young, he had watched his uncle ride away on a black horse with his sword beside him, and after the man had left he'd gone into his room and lain down on his bed, drinking in the smell of his uncle's unwashed body. He had wanted to ride off on a horse to do battle, not remain behind for lessons and the constant attention of his aunts and mother and the women of the tent. But a seven year old was not allowed to go to war, of course. And so he'd contented himself with stealing a pair of his uncle's gloves. They had smelled of blood and leather and the sweet oil used to polish his sword.

And Salahuddin understood Rana then. He understood, and his great heart gave a sympathetic twinge. All of the laws of the faith and the realm forbade a woman from doing what Rana wished to do. But her soul was unlike that of other women.

He touched the place on his chest where the arrow wound was healing, lifting his shirt, and Rana placed her fingertips against his while he traced the jagged edge of the cut.

"There is much pain involved in war, Rana." he told her gently. Rana brought her lips to his breast, kissing the hurt. He shivered despite the heat.

"There is pain in the life of a woman as well, my Master." she murmured, "Pain in childhood when we are punished. Pain in the bed of our husband when we come of age. Pain in the tent of the midwife when we bring new life to the world. Pain when our mother dies, when our children go away. A woman can bear pain. I am not afraid."

"What is it you wish?"

"I wish to fight and die under your command. I wish to lay beneath you, and only you, and become a woman. I wish to leave forever the uncertainty and the impotence of youth and be a mechanism in the war machine of the great Salahuddin."

"All the things you have mentioned are completely forbidden! Learn your place! You are a woman, and more importantly a child!"

"I will not learn my place, Master, if it requires me to watch you ride away toward death without me. And you were a child once, too."

She was correct, and he well remembered the first clumsy fumbling with a sword, the desire to be great burning in his eyes. And the first clumsy fumbling in bed, a woman who knew even less than he weeping under his pathetically inept ministrations. Rana deserved better on both counts.

He came to a decision.

"Would you not rather become a woman with Nasir, after you have been lawfully married?"

"You are my Master. He will understand, when I go to him."

"But you do plan to go to him."

"Perhaps."

"Habibiti, choose with your heart."

"You own this body, Sayyidi. And this heart has chosen you. I will tolerate no other, this decision is complete. It is your instruction that I desire. And your touch. I know that I am no beauty, but will you have me?"

Salahuddin placed a hand on her cheek and turned her face up to him. Her mouth was moist and soft as he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers for the first time. It was a thing he would never have done had she not come to him this way. He truly loved his wife and did not wish to take another woman into his heart or his bed. But he also loved Rana, and she kissed him back with a passion and a fire that belied her young years and drove the hesitancy from his heart.

"You are beautiful, little Rana. You are more beautiful than you will ever believe." he whispered, and Rana closed her eyes and accepted his lips upon hers again.

Outside the sentries patrolled the border of the encampment and Nasir in his tent prayed with damp eyes for guidance and forgiveness. Mullah Khaled stood nearby in the dark, his heart troubled, and turned his face to the stars as if seeking an answer to a question he could not even put into words. The dancer Mahana lay contentedly in the arms of Ahmed the siege tower engineer, sated and drowsy. Aisha slept on the floor across the room from her master Yasan's cot and shivered beneath her thin blanket. His back was to her, and she had no warmth, no warmth at all in the whole world.

Salahuddin drew Rana closer to him, pressing her chest against his and feeling their hearts beat as one. And it was right and proper that he should do this to her, and she yielded to him completely as she always had. Years of mutual, deeply buried desire rushed suddenly to the surface, heating their blood. Rana was lost in a rising tide of brand new sensations.

Her mouth tasted of his, the calloused fingers that trailed down her spine imparted their roughness to her flesh, her skin rubbed against him, and then his sweat was hers, his hair brushed against her cheeks. A moment of fear, but then her complete trust in him overcame the terror and she stilled. Something of the desert and the blood and the fire moved inside her as he lifted her gown and completed the job that the soldier on the wall had attempted, his power and strength and tenderness concentrated into the act of joining their bodies under the cool silver glow of the moon in the black veil of heaven. Rana moved beneath him as though he had made love to her a thousand times, her hips gliding with his in an ancient rhythm of query and response.

_'Am I worthy?' _her body asked, and his answered _'yes'._

They made no sound, never breaking the gaze that locked girl to man, master to slave, in a torment of need and envy and adoration.

His was the body she would have chosen for herself had she been given the chance to be made anew. The arms that held her were slim but strong as tempered steel, the thighs that stretched hers apart were crafted of firm muscles and sinew like a deer's, made for running tirelessly over the dunes. Rana's lips found his again in the dark, drawing her very breath from him.

His kiss was long and slow, eliciting from her a soft moan of pure need.

Dark heat began to rise in the pit of her stomach, and she felt an irrational pang of loss when he pulled back slightly to lift her legs up, sliding them over his shoulders and opening her fully to the deepest penetration possible. A stab of pure agony accompanied his reentry, and Rana gasped, her chest heaving with the exertion of not crying out. He was not gentle, and she did not want him to be. Her Master, her lover, her king held her down beneath him and took her with the violence and the pain and the pleasure and the raw joy of the battlefield. She knew the passion of the warrior through the rhythm of his lovemaking, the remaining measure of her virgin's blood spilling onto the clean white linens and running down the inside of his thighs with every thrust. In a moment, in a moment she would scream. She pulled his hand to her mouth, and he held it there, muffling the cries that were ripped from the depths of her soul as the ecstasy rose up and threatened to drown her. He could hardly breathe, the almost unbearable tightness of her body enclosing him and driving all coherent thoughts from his mind. A child, not yet a woman, but with all the fire of a succubus, looking up at him with glistening eyes over the top of his hand. She was no longer Rana the sweetly smiling, shy little girl who brought him water and cleaned his sword. She was Rana the desert jackal, Rana the fighter, Rana the demoness with lips bruised red from the torment of his kisses. He bent her legs back even farther, replacing the hand over her mouth with his lips, drawing her moans into himself as their passion reached a crescendo.

And they cried out against one another, her nails digging into his back hard enough to tear the skin, his teeth biting down on her lower lip and bringing a burst of blood to their mouths. All the world was this moment suddenly, their bodies slick with sweat and blood and the slippery fluids of their loving, straining against each other in an endless riptide of glory. She clung to him and the tears ran down her face, and they were whispering to one another in English and Arabic and French, love words from the depths of the soul that the light of morning would never illuminate and no other ears would ever hear. His arms suddenly tightened around her, his teeth biting deliciously into the place where her neck met her shoulder, and Rana cried out with no hand to silence her. She guided his lips to hers, the rough hair of his beard scratching her ravaged mouth while the softness of his tongue gently met her own. Something warm and tingling flowed into her, and her Master's tense muscles relaxed slightly. Rana tangled her fingers in his hair, draining his energy with the intensity of their kiss. She wanted to draw all of him into her, his body and soul, the sweat and the pain and the blood and the fire that lived inside the blood. Salahuddin was God to her then, suddenly, in the dark.

Mullah Khaled's call to prayer rang out, and still she lay in her Master's embrace, staring up at him with a devotion that none other save Allah could ever command. He kissed her again, and it was the touch of the divine.

Rana did not feel his strength falter, and he moved inside her again after the briefest of pauses. Eight years, and only now a release of the longing they'd both felt. Rana was weeping, shaking uncontrollably with helpless ecstasy.

"Enta hyati...enta omri..." she gasped against his lips. _You are my life. You are my soul._ He released her legs, and she wrapped them around his waist and rolled with him as he drew her atop his body. It was a position she had never imagined, of course, but she allowed him to guide her movements with his hands and his soft voice. Shapes moved outside the tent, sleepy warriors and slaves making themselves ready for the dawn prayer. But time did not touch the two lovers in their warm, tangled nest of blankets. The light grew, and she saw him more clearly as he lay beneath her. He was beautiful in a way that men were not anymore, the hardness of his face and the dark midnight gleam of his eyes beyond description. A stab of shock coursed through her as the full realization of what she had done slapped against her senses. Deeds committed in the darkest hours of the night wore a different face by the light of the rising sun, but she felt no shame, and when he lifted her gown up and over her head, exposing her nakedness, she only blushed a little. Salahuddin tilted her back, the arch of her spine accentuating her small breasts as she rose and fell in time with his hips. It was a sight he would never forget, the way the sweat glistened on her chest and down her belly, the bright red flowers of blood blooming on their thighs, the sweet scent of her skin and the tickle of her hair against his legs as she threw back her head and gave in to the wild pleasure of their coupling.

Rana collapsed atop him once more, crying out in spite of herself, but his hand was across her mouth again and the sound was quickly silenced. He rolled her onto her back, still deep inside her, and his chest was pressed against hers so tightly that their heartbeats warred with one another and neither could identify the rhythm of their own. She was shivering with exhaustion, unwilling to stop, drained from the intensity of the passion that he caused her to feel. He slowed, drawing out the glorious sensations that he knew she was experiencing for the first time. He wanted her memories of this moment to be of pleasure, not just of pain. And so they would be...always.

She buried her face in his neck as she had a hundred times before, tears coursing down her cheeks, gasping, and he moved his hand from her lips and allowed her the mercy of making a sound. The others had gone out to pray away from the tents and could not hear them.

Again the rising fire, again the burning in their bodies and the soul-searing beauty of the explosion. Salahuddin gave in to a soft moan, and Rana wept openly and caught his lips with hers, drinking in the sound of his pleasure. She cried out a moment later when she again felt the warmth of his seed spill deep within her aching body. And then they lay still together, breathing heavily, Rana's gasping tears the only noise.

Her tears affected him as they always had, and he raised himself up on his arms to look down at her.

"Why do you weep, child? Is the pain too great? I am sorry, I should have been more gentle."

"N-no, my Master. Do not ever hold back with me."

He lovingly kissed away the wetness beneath her eyes, and she quieted. In all truth, she cried only because the intensity of the moment was too much to bear, and she found suddenly that she did not want it to ever end. She was a child again, frightened and uncertain, and the dark inferno that originally compelled her to initiate this act had burned down to glowing coals somewhere inside her chest. She felt shame flood through her, and the lingering pleasure that emanated from between her shaking thighs dimmed slightly.

She did not feel at all like a lioness anymore.

"I am the one who should be sorry, Sayyidi, for what I have compelled you to do." she whispered brokenly. Salahuddin cradled the side of her face in his left hand and wiped away the last of her tears with his fingertips.

"Rana."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and was surprised to see the warmth in his expression.

"My Master."

"Do you regret this?"

"I do not."

"Then you must not weep. You are a woman now. You have been taken by one who loves you. And you will soon carry a sword and a shield and fight beside me."

Her heart gave a great leap of hope.

"Truly?"

"I will find a trusted officer to train you, someone who will not be offended at the idea of taking a female to battle."

"What about Nasir?"

"He would never agree to such a thing, Rana. He cares for you too greatly to compromise your safety."

Rana balked, almost blurting out that Nasir already had, but she bit down on her tongue at the last moment.

Her lip was extremely sore where her Master had bitten it, and her entire body felt as though she'd been beaten. They would mark her absence at the dawn prayer, and everyone would wonder why she hadn't come. So too with Salahuddin, who had not missed a prayer in six years except when engaged in direct combat. But she could not go now even if she wanted to, and he too lay against her and made no move to pull away. The light was growing.

"Will you at least consider him? I would feel comfortable with no other besides you."

He sighed, arching one eyebrow in a gesture of skepticism. But finally he nodded.

"If it is what you wish."

Rana shivered in his arms, and he reached down and drew the blanket over them both, warming her with his embrace beneath the soft fabric.

"I love you, my king." she said, touching his face. He favored her with a rare smile, and there was no bitterness in his eyes when he next spoke.

"Go to Nasir after they return from Fajr, little one. Tell him what you desire, and that it is my will that he teach you the ways of battle."

"And you?"

"I will expect you by sundown, to prepare dinner and mend my clothing."

Rana could not resist the urge to kiss him again, her heart full of love and gratitude for all he had done. But this time when her lips met his he did not part them, merely kissing her chastely as though she were a beloved relative. She pulled back, confused.

"Master?"

"Nasir, my child. It is to him that your heart truly belongs. I will love you for all time, but it must be his touch that you crave."

"And if he does not desire me?"

"He does. He has confessed as much to me. You will not be rejected."

Rana felt a knife wound of sorrow in her heart as she saw a fleeting look of pain cross Salahuddin's eyes. He gently drew away from her, sliding out of her sore body and slipping a light robe over his shoulders. He crossed to the wash basin and wetted a cloth, then returned to her side to gently clean the blood from her thighs and stomach. She watched him work, noting the kindness and mercy with which he treated her body. When she was cleaned, he helped her into the soft gown once more.

"You must perform a full bath now before you can pray again. Cleanse yourself completely, even your hair. And the bedding must be fully washed. I have much to attend to this morning. I will not see you until nightfall."

"I understand, my Master."

"Go now to Nasir's tent and await him. You may decide what to tell him of our actions, Rana."

"My Lord Salahuddin..."

"Hush, little one. Do not trouble your heart. I love you, as I always have. Go."

She looked up into his eyes again, and desire fluttered in her stomach for a moment. Conflicting emotions touched her mind with doubt. But she did as he had instructed, and did not look back as the tent flap closed behind her.

* * *

After she'd gone, Salahuddin sank down onto the bed once more, putting a hand over his eyes. 

He did not move for a long time.


	9. Aftermath

Aftermath

Rana stood naked in a tub of warm water, her hands shaking badly as she cleaned herself. A vast disquiet was growing in her heart, a tempest that threatened to rob her of her sanity. What had she done?  
Black waves of dizziness washed over her, and she sat quickly, putting her head down and drawing her knees up to her chest. The tears came as she knew they would, hot and wet and endless.

_'Allah forgive me.'_ She thought desperately, and gave herself over fully to the agony that branded her heart.

So great was her misery that she did not hear the tent flap being drawn open, and she pulled violently away when a gentle hand was laid on her back.  
"Shhh, Bedouin. I will not hurt you. What is wrong?"  
It was Mahana, the dancer. Her warm eyes held great concern and kindness. Rana had only spoken to her once or twice before, contenting herself with listening in whenever the other women spoke among themselves. She started to speak, but a pang of nausea stole her voice. Tears ran down her cheeks, she covered herself with her hands and wept as though her heart would break. Mahana wrapped a coarse cloth around her shoulders and rocked her as though she were a very small girl again. Which, she reminded herself, she had been until an hour ago. "Little Bedouin...Rana, isn't it? Rana the Sultan's slave? But why are you crying? Shall I send someone to find your master for you?"  
Rana cried harder, completely unable to speak, and Mahana held her tightly.

"Please! Please tell me what is it? What has happened? I have never seen you so upset! Oh Rana, whatever you have endured, share it with me! I will help you any way that I can!"  
"I...I am a woman. Oh God, oh why can't I _breathe_?!" Rana gasped, and hid her face in her knees again.

"A woman? But I don't understand? Have you begun bleeding? Is that it?" Mahana looked into the bathwater and noted the pinkness that tinged it. She rubbed Rana's back with calm understanding. "It's nothing to be afraid of, my dear, although it does seem to be late. Mine began when I was nine, but we all move to different rhythms. Please try to calm down. I will show you what to do. It will be ok."  
"Ah! Mahana, no! I mean, yes! I am bleeding, yes! But it is not that...not...Oh God..."  
"What? Please, what?"  
Rana drew a shaking breath, her head clearing slightly. She was grateful for the kindness of the dancer's words and the motherly hand on her back, but at the moment she would have greatly preferred to be alone. She wondered if all women experienced this same mix of powerful emotions when they lost their virginity. A sudden memory of her Master's lips on hers and his hands on her body sent a lightning bolt of pain and desire though her, and she leaned against Mahana with her eyes closed.

Mahana looked at her carefully, at her flushed cheeks and the bruise on her lip where her Master had bitten her at the height of their ecstasy, at the scratches on her neck, the way her breasts were rubbed raw along one side from the linen sheets. Comprehension dawned slowly in her eyes, and she stilled her rocking.  
"But...but Rana. Rana you are not married!" she whispered urgently. Rana's eyes snapped open, and she glared at the other woman.  
"And you are?"  
"Well, no. But I am barren..."  
"That makes it halal, does it?"  
Mahana looked taken aback. She thought for a moment in silence, then resumed gently rocking Rana against her.  
"I'm sorry. Please, tell me. Are you alright? Who has taken you so cruelly - "  
"I will not say. But yes, I am well. He was passionate, not cruel. I was not the only one to bleed."  
"Oh, I hope your master does not find out! He would be furious with you!"  
Rana sighed explosively at these words, and all the tension suddenly melted away in a rush of warmth. She loved him.

She loved her Master more than she loved her own life, or the taste of cool water after a long march, or the way the sun shone in Nasir's hair as he rode by on his horse. And thinking of Nasir brought another stab of love to her heart. The pain of being caught in such a terrible place was too keen to bear. She was shaking badly, and she could not get her breath.

"Mahana?"  
"What can I do, Rana? Would you like me to help you wash your hair?"  
"Please. And I'll...I'll need a fresh gown. And please do not tell anyone."  
"No, little Bedouin. It is lucky I found you first. I am probably the only one who would have understood."  
"You are."

And Rana sat still as a statue while Mahana gently washed her hair, pouring the water over her and down her back again and again until she was completely clean. The bath over, she stood and dried herself carefully from head to toe, avoiding the fresh bruises that bore silent testament to the power of the passion that she had so recently experienced. The fire boiled in her again, and she tasted blood and sand and hot winds out there across the dunes. She looked at the woman standing beside her.

"I must tend to my work. Thank you for your help, Mahana. I will not forget."  
Something in her voice, a new edge perhaps, caused Mahana's eyes to widen slightly, but she nodded once and withdrew a little way, giving Rana room to complete her drying. She sorted through a pile of gowns, finding a clean one and a matching abaya and handing them over wordlessly. Rana dressed carefully, ignoring the slight pain pulsing between her thighs. She pulled her hair back and tucked it under a plain linen hijab, noting with approval that her hands were shaking only a little now.

"Are you certain you don't need to talk, Rana?"  
"I will be fine now, my friend. You are kind to care so much for me when we have hardly spoken before. Allah bless you for your compassion."  
Mahana smiled wanly and pushed a stray curl from Rana's forehead up out of sight beneath the brown fabric. "We were all virgins once, little cat. I will be close by if you should need me."  
"Thank you." Rana said politely, and turned to go. But someone was blocking her path.

Zainab stood in the doorway of the women's tent, watching Rana with a decidedly knowing look on her face. Rana suddenly found that she had nothing to say. She wondered how much the girl had heard, and a blush rose in her cheeks. Mahana did not seem to notice anything amiss, and began to clean the minute traces of Rana's blood from the edge of the bathing vessel, humming softly to herself.  
"You were not at the prayer." Zainab noted. Rana avoided her eyes.  
"No, I was not."  
"Why? I looked for you."  
"I was unwell."  
Zainab nodded slowly.  
"May we speak later? There are many questions I would like to ask you."  
"Yes. Yes, of course. I will find you in a few hours." Rana said softly, grateful to have put off the need to explain herself right away. She needed time to think. Zainab seemed to understand, again startling Rana with her innate ability to read the souls of others as easily as a book. She laid a hand on her arm and smiled gently.  
"You are fortunate, Rana," she whispered, so low that only they could hear, "To have the love of such men."  
"How do you know so much?"  
"My tent is close to yours. And I am a light sleeper. You will have to tell me what it is like to wear armor and carry a sword one day soon, my friend. Go to Nasir."  
Rana found herself smiling, shaking her head in wonder, and she slipped around her friend and made her way through the throngs of people on their way back from Fajr to stand before the open tent of Nasir and await his return.

Across the paths, through the swirling sand and the growing light, she saw her Master walking with Mullah Khaled. Her heart gave a great squeeze as she watched him, and the trembling started again. She wanted to run to him like a little girl and throw herself into his arms, but to do so would bring him deep shame and start the entire encampment talking. And the sun rose ever higher, burning like a great eye above them. Rana waited, massaging her stomach absently to relieve the ache, wondering how Nasir would react when she told him that she had obtained permission to do the very thing he had already been training her for. He would undoubtedly be relieved that there was no more need for a ruse.

"Rana?" Nasir came up beside her, looking around them carefully for any sign of the Mullah. Rana shook her head and pointed across the encampment to where her Master still stood in deep conversation with Khaled.  
"May I speak to you, my lord?"  
"Of course. What is it you wish?"  
"Will you walk with me? It is a private matter."  
Nasir sighed, a look of irritation crossing his handsome features, and then he passed his gaze over the surrounding throng once more. No one watched them, each intent on his own errands. Nasir took her arm and pulled her quickly into his tent, closing the front and tying it shut. Rana started to speak, but her words were abruptly cut off when he whirled on her and took her roughly by the shoulders.

"Tell me what you were doing in here last night! Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused?! Why would you do this thing to me, to us?!"  
Rana looked up into his eyes, and was deeply hurt to see the quiet fury that burned there. She met his gaze evenly, thinking of Zainab and her indomitable courage.  
"I do not know why I came to you. I found myself there before I even realized where I was going." she answered honestly. Nasir gave her a shake, his anger rising.  
"You could very well have had us both stoned for that little misstep! It is fortunate that Khaled agreed to keep his mouth shut!"  
"I have already told our Master, and he has forgiven me."  
"You told him?!"  
Rana still did not look away. "You are hurting me." She said softly. Nasir looked as though he would like very much to hurt her worse, but he instead released her and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed. Rana knelt beside him, much as she had the night before, and took his hand in her own.  
"He was not angry with you, Nasir. Only me. And only for a moment."  
"And was that the moment when he struck you? Your lip is swollen, you know. And you almost deserve it."  
"He did not hit me! But it is irrelevant. Nasir, he has changed his mind about permitting me to fight. He will allow you to train me openly."  
"You told him? My God, what else have you done in the short time since I showed you kindness?! Do you plan to put a knife in my chest next? You are more of a danger than all the Templars put together - "  
Rana looked away, distraught.

"Imad." she whispered. It was his true name, the name he told very few, the name his mother had given him. He lapsed into silence abruptly, glaring at her. She waited not one moment longer. "I did not tell him. I merely begged for his blessing once more, and it was granted."  
"By what witchcraft did you change the heart of the king, habibiti?" Nasir asked, and this time there was wonder in his voice. Rana touched her injured lip and considered her next words very carefully.  
"I am a slave."  
Nasir nodded impatiently.  
"I wanted to become more than a simple servant for some time. I love to care for him in every way, but most of all I wanted to be to him what you are. A fighter. A slave, yes. But a slave who fights for her Master as well as care for him. He understood, he listened to my words and to the words that I could not speak. I opened my soul to him, and he looked into it and made his decision. I kissed him, I could not stop myself from doing so. I wanted to taste the sweat and the sun on his skin, the way that I wanted to taste it in you. He did not stop me. We...we made love."

"You should never have tried to convince him that it is a good idea to send a child into...Wait, what? You did _WHAT_?!" he was practically shouting, and it was with visible effort that he gained control of himself. Rage and sorrow and shock and betrayal all fought for mastery of his expression, and he stood up again and began to pace wildly. Rana sat still, watching him, waiting for the events to unfold as they must. Long minutes passed.  
Finally, he stopped and looked down at her.  
"Get out." he snarled through gritted teeth. "Sharmuta. Whore. Get out and do not return."  
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she rose to her feet on shaking legs. She had never been called such a thing, never before in all her life. Nasir had never even called Mahana that. He was livid, color rising in his cheeks, his passionate Arabic blood boiling. She had never seen anyone so angry.  
With a whimper, she turned to rush from the tent.

He caught her arm before she could leave and pulled her back with a violence that was shockingly cruel. Ripping the hijab away from her hair he caught a great fistful of her curls and forced her to her knees before him, and there were tears in his own eyes and he was shaking. Rana fought the urge to scream for help, mutely raising her face and awaiting the punishment that she was certain was about to come. She was so terribly confused, so damaged by her own wanton actions, that she almost welcomed the pain that she knew he was about to visit upon her.  
"It is no less than I deserve." she said, her voice choked with sorrow. She waited for the blow.

It never fell.

Nasir dropped to his knees as well and crushed her to him, and then he was kissing her and they were both crying and her body was still so terribly sore and he was hurting her arms again. He kissed her nose and her wet eyelids and her flaming cheeks and her gasping mouth. He kissed her and wept and kissed her again and did not stop. Only when his teeth accidentally grazed the bite wound on her lip did she moan aloud in pain, and he pulled away. They looked at one another, trembling, regaining their composure. Nasir rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.  
"Rana, Rana. Why did you not come to me?"  
"I did. But so did Mullah Khaled."  
He did not speak, there were no words that he could say. After a time, he sighed and rose to his feet again, the tears drying on his face.  
"Get up, little one. We must have you fitted for armor and request a lighter sword to be forged. You will continue to be a scout. No direct combat. I forbid it!"  
"Who are you to forbid me anything?"  
"I am the man who will be your husband!" he shouted at her, and her eyes widened in shock. Nasir lowered his voice and took her hand. "The man...who will be your husband." he repeated.  
Rana tried to unravel exactly how she was feeling. Yearning for war, torn between a powerful love for both Salahuddin and Nasir, for the lifestyle of each. Her lips burned where Nasir had kissed them, her body was still sore from the heady glory of the morning spent in her Master's embrace. But which man to go to? She no longer knew what she wanted, and panic was looming over her mind like a thundercloud.

She took a deep breath. Black eyes with highlights of gold.

She sighed. Gentle brown eyes touched with shades of green and blue.

The scent of armor oil and horses stole over her, and she focused her attention on it to the exclusion of all else.  
"Show me how to climb a wall, Nasir. The last one almost proved to be my undoing." she said, and he smiled.

* * *

Author's Note - I was listening to 'Hemmorage' by Fuel while I wrote this, and 'Signs of the Zodiac' by Rasputina during the last chapter. I think perhaps that the tone of my writing has a great deal to do with the kind of music I'm listening to at the time. Therefore, I would like some suggestions from my readers. Do you listen to music whilst creating? What, exactly? And what should I play for the next chapter, do you think? Thanks as always for the input. - The Noble Rot 


	10. The Training Begins

The Training Begins

Nasir took Rana to the edge of the encampment, to where the rock face of the cliffs towered smoothly above them. He showed her where to put her fingers and how to find the cracks in the worn rock that might hold her weight. She fell often, and her abaya and hijab were always in the way.  
"Nasir, couldn't I - "  
"Absolutely not. You will at least _attempt_ to maintain your modesty."  
"But it would be so much better if I were dressed as you are! I could still cover my hair with the helm, as I did the first time!"  
"When you are away from the camp, yes. But there are far too many curious eyes here, even if you do not see them."  
Rana rubbed a welt on her chest where a particularily sharp rock had punched through the soft fabric of her gown. It offered little protection, but she set her face in a look of determination and prepared to mount the wall again. Nasir watched her dispassionately, commenting only when she made an obvious mistake.  
"How...long," she panted, pulling her weight up onto the rock face with her shaking fingertips, "did it...take you to...learn this?"  
"I am not a scout."  
"But can you...climb the stones?"  
"I can. Boys learn these things while girls are learning how to sew."  
Rana lunged at another hand hold and caught it, pulling open a wide gash on her finger as she did so. She ignored the pain and tugged herself higher. Another few inches, and her foot caught a protrusion to lift her even higher.  
"If you can climb that in an abaya and hijab, with those soft shoes, then you will be able to climb even faster in the lighter clothing of a scout. Did Salahuddin mention when you would be permitted to join us?"  
"I felt it...best not to ask...too many questions." Rana was having trouble catching her breath. She pulled up a little farther, now a full five feet from the ground. Another finger hold, another few inches.

Nasir stood below her and slightly away from the rocks, prepared to help her should she need it. "I will decide then. When you can climb this place blind it will be time."  
"Blind? I am a girl, not a...spider!" Rana argued.  
Another few inches. She climbed steadily, elated at how high she was getting. Seven feet, then ten, then a good fifteen or so, with Nasir far below her, shouting helpful advice. A trickle of sweat dripped into her eyes, and she blinked quickly to clear it. The sting of the salt water was distracting. She dared not move her hand to wipe at her face, and the blood on her fingers was making it difficult to hold herself still. She rested for a moment, catching her breath and trying not to move too much.

"Would you really catch me if I fell?" she called down nervously.  
"I am still very angry."  
"Nasir!"  
"Of course I would catch you, Rana. Do not be silly. Now stop talking and concentrate! I have not much time to spend with you. There are more pressing matters in this war than teaching a willful slave how to climb rocks."  
Rana gritted her teeth and pulled herself higher.  
"You...don't...have...to...waste...time...here." she managed.  
Nasir made a dismissive gesture with his hand that she did not see.  
"I can spare this hour at least. Remember to lean forward with your shoulders and keep your hips straight."  
Rana adjusted her position obediently, and it proved to be her undoing. Her torn finger slipped from its tenuous hold on the cliff face and she plummeted backwards, falling almost twenty feet with a high thin scream of terror before landing with a resounding thud in Nasir's arms. He toppled backward under the impact, striking his head on a stone and dislodging his helmet. Rana fell to her side, jamming her shoulder brutally and gashing her hip and upper thigh on his dagger, and in the ensuing tangle of limbs lost a shoe.

They lay in the sand together, each one doing a private inventory of damage. Nasir sat up first.  
"Have you broken anything?"

Rana was touched that his first thought was for her safety. She gingerly felt her shoulder, wincing.  
"I...I think it will be alright. I landed awfully hard, though."  
"Only because you overcompensated for your imbalance. Can you stand?" He rose to his own feet and held a hand out to help her up as well. Rana took it, carefully rising into a standing position and leaning heavily on the rock wall for balance. She looked up, noting with pleasure how high the smear of blood was above her.  
"That is the farthest I have gone!" she said happily, her eyes shining. Nasir looked over at her, surprised and pleased by her resilience. He laughed softly.  
"Higher, yes. But that is enough for today. I must meet with the seige tower engineers, and I am sure you have much to do as well."  
Rana nodded, still smiling up at the red banner, oblivious to the mess Nasir's dagger had made of her clothing and the skin under it. There was a scratch under her right eye and she was limping.

It was in such a state that she entered the camp again, pink-cheeked and elated. She had never felt so alive. It was a simple thing, to climb a wall and fall from it, to sustain a minor dagger injury and get dirt on her face...but she was delighted nonetheless. It was an experience that young girls were not encouraged ever to have.  
Rana was very hungry suddenly, and stopped by the supply tent for some dried fruit and bread. Abdal Baseer, the supply chief, was arranging crates against the wall and singing to himself. He looked up as she entered and gave a gasp of horror.

"Wa la haram! Oh no! What has happened?" he bustled over to her, taking a rag from his pocket and wiping at the dirt on Rana's shining face. She laughed, smiling up at the old man. He had always been kind to her, and his fussing made her feel like a favorite grandchild.  
"I am not hurt seriously, Papa." she said, holding still so he could fish removing the dirt. He dabbed at her lip as well, shaking his head.  
"Have you been fighting, Batihti, sweet little melon? How did you hurt yourself?"

"I fell off a cliff." Rana said, turning her attention to a small bag of dried figs. "May I take these? And do you have honey? It is one of the few things my Master will actually eat."

"A cliff! Ach!" The old man waved his hands in the air as though warding off a swarm of bees, "You are a wild animal! Here, take this jar. And try to convince him to eat more, please. He must keep up his strength for all our sake's. Does he get enough rest?"

"The physicians do not think so, but he seldom feels tired. He does not need the same comforts as other men. But the injury to his back from four months ago still gives him trouble. Have you any oil?"  
Abdal Baseer rooted through a satchel and produced a small bottle of brown leather.

"Warm it in a bowl before you use it, and add some steamed yarrow leaves to cleanse his body of the fatigue of war. And here, take this frankincense. The smoke of its burning will soothe his mind. We must take care of our Sultan, yes? And we cannot do that well if we are out playing on cliffs, you see? You have a very important job, yes? Take this tincture for your scratches. You are limping, rub your leg with this ointment. Take this dried meat and some bread, and these lemons are fresh. This soap was made only six weeks ago, take it too. Ah, never enough rest for our King! Sprinkle his linens with this rosewater. And take this cloth for polishing his armor, yes? All good? All supplied? Little Batihti, playing like a boy! This is the reason you have no husband yet! But you will be lovely soon. And after Jerusalem is ours you will be able to tell your children that you took care of the greatest Sultan that has ever lived, Allah bless him and his family! Ah, that reminds me! Take this letter, it is from his wife. Now shoo! Shoo!" He waved her out of the tent, loaded down with packages.

Now, overburdened as well as limping, Rana moved even more slowly across the encampment, picking her way through the rows of soldiers' pavilions until she reached the humble tent that she and her Master lived in at the moment.

A ringing was filling her ears, and it bothered her. She set about putting away the oils and unguents and rations, trying not to look at the rolled parchment that she'd placed on the table. His wife had written to him. Rana used to love it when her letters came, for she always had some special message for her husband's slave that made Rana feel important. But all at once she felt cold inside, and did not want to be in the same room as the note bearing its words of love and encouragement and faithfulness. Rana stripped the bloody linens from the bed and bundled them to be washed. She carefully sprinkled the fresh sheets and blanket with the rosewater Abdal Baseer had given her and plumped up the pillows with her fists, hitting them a bit harder than absolutely necessary.  
She looked over again at the letter, sitting innocently on the table.

Steaming the yarrow leaves took a half hour, and Rana had to continually stir them to keep them from burning. The sweet scent of the little yellow and red flowers filled the tent, easing her tension. The plant was also knows as Soldier's Woundwort, and was invaluable for the treatment of war injuries. With a practiced hand she gathered them into a clean strip of muslin and set the damp package aside to add to warm massage oil later.

Her hip stung where Nasir's dagger had pierced it, and Rana carefully closed the tent flap and removed her soiled abaya and hijab, inspecting the damage. It was worse than she thought. The knife had cut very shallow across the side of her right buttock and the curve of her hip, but the place where her bone pushed up against the skin was slashed deeply, and the cloth that covered the place was stuck to the skin with dried blood. The dull pain intensified as she attempted to pull the fabric out, and she gave a little yelp when it finally came free and the blood oozed out. She glanced into the polished surface of Salahuddin's shield where it lay propped against the foot of the bed, and was surprised to see how filthy and large the hurt was. Rolling on the ground directly after sustaining the damage had pushed a large amount of dirt and sand into the open wound. It would take some time to clean, but she could not afford an infection. Pulling on a loose robe and covering her hair again, Rana made her way to the women's tent to bathe the injury.

Zainab was there alone, combing her hair and staring moodily into a silver mirror. She was everything Rana was not. Her hair fell in thick, silken waves to her waist. Rana's was curly and fuzzy and hung only to the middle of her back. She could never get it to look so lovely, it seemed to have a mind of its own. And where Zainab's large eyes were like twin pools of midnight that the sun could never clear away, Rana's own eyes were the same featureless brown as the wood of the mahogany tree. Her nose was too long. Zainab's was perfect. Rana's body was only just beginning to develop curves and sensuality, but Zainab's small waist and wide hips, long legs and perfect brown arms would not have looked out of place on a statue such as they carved in Greece. Rana sighed, feeling hopelessly awkward and unattractive, and began to pour some water into a basin. Zainab looked up, smiling.

"Twice in one day? Or do these injuries come from another source?" She teased gently.

"I am learning to climb a wall. Nasir believes that I should remain a scout instead of seeking full combat. And so I must learn to do the thing properly." Rana replied. She pulled off her coverings and knelt beside the basin, pouring water over the gash on her hip. Zainab did not gasp in shock or scream or recoil, and Rana's respect for her deepened. The other girl knelt beside her and inspected the wound herself.  
"Your body will have quite a tale to tell after this war is over, Rana," she said, helping her to clean the injury, "Few women can boast as many scars as you are accumulating!"  
They were silent for some time, intent on removing all traces of sand and dust. After she was satisfied that no source of infection could remain, Rana dabbed a generous measure of ointment into the cut and covered it with a fresh bandage. Finished, she pulled on her gown again and sat back on her heels.  
"Zainab, you wanted to talk to me?"  
"I do. Can we go to your tent? Too many interruptions here."  
"Yes. My Master will not return until after sunset. Please come, you are welcome."  
The two girls covered themselves well against the eyes of the men that outnumbered them three hundred to one, and made their way back to the shadowy coolness of Rana's quarters. Once there, Zainab removed her shoes respectfully at the door and allowed Rana to usher her into a chair. She looked around in fascination.

"I have never been in the bedchambers of a Sultan before." she said mildly, and Rana was struck by how bold she was, "Where is it that you sleep?"  
"There, on the pallet beside the wall there. Most of the time."  
Zainab fixed her with a very piercing stare, full of curiosity and kindness and friendship, and Rana found herself relaxing.

"And the rest of the time?" Zainab asked, smiling almost impreceptably.  
"The rest of the time I sleep beside Salahuddin in his bed. But until this morning there was no impropriety."  
"I would say that running your hands over a man's body in the dark is improper no matter what follows." Zainab laughed. "What does he look like under the armor?"  
"Beautiful."  
"He is very dangerous-looking. Aren't you frightened of him?"  
"At times."  
"Were you this morning?"  
There, she had said it. Rana knew even before they'd begun to speak that Zainab's curiosity was the real reason she wanted to talk. Her wedding night was fast approaching, and no doubt she was nervous. There was no point in keeping secrets, and so Rana lowered herself to the floor at the foot of the chair, her customary position.  
"I was afriad, but the desire drove that fear from my mind. He was not over-gentle. I have never trembled so badly in all my life."  
"Was there much blood?"  
Rana toyed with a thread in the carpet, remembering her Master's tenderness when he cleaned the bright red stains from her thighs.  
"There was only a little, but it spread. I would suggest that you try to keep still. And do not tense up or it will be worse. And ask him to kiss you the entire time. It is truly wonderful."

Zainab took a deep breath and looked at her hands. Like Rana's had been, they were shaking slightly.  
"Mullah Khaled is a very merciful man," Rana found herself suddenly saying, "He respects a woman's body. He will not harm you."  
And she told her about the midnight visit to Nasir's tent and all that followed. "He treated me kindly despite his anger. He did not even strike me, though I could tell he wanted to. For you, whom he holds no anger towards, he will certainly be even more gentle."

Zainab bit her lower lip, a faraway look coming into her eyes.  
"He is very handsome. I have seen him twice through the opening in the tent. But he has not come to me yet. I think he wishes to wait for the wedding."  
"When will this be?"  
"In five days' time. Another mullah from Aleppo had to be sent for since the death of Khaled's fellow holy man."

Rana remembered him, a very stern and quiet man who refused to even look at her. He had died after a bad fall from his horse, and now Khaled was the only mullah traveling with the army. It was customary to have at least five, but lately the dangers of the front were keeping many less adventurous men at home.  
"He _is_ handsome, you are right. I'm certain you will be happy."  
"Rana, why do you keep looking at that paper on the table?"  
Rana snapped her gaze back to Zainab's face, angry that she was so transparent.  
"I...How do you know so many things?"  
"I listen. I look. "  
"It is a letter from my Master's wife." Rana said miserably. She shook her head. "I don't know why it is affecting me so! I never used to mind at all. In fact, I am very fond of Jamila. She is a strong woman. Bearing eight sons cannot be easy, and I have heard that all of them have the temperment of their father. She was pregnant again when we left Damascus ten months ago. This letter is probably bearing the news of another birth. But I feel...I feel devastated. Why should I?"  
Zainab put a gentle hand on Rana's shoulder, smiling.  
"You are sad because you are in love with your Master."  
"Of course I love him! We all do!"  
"You love him, yes. But you are also in love with him. It is a very different thing."  
"I am in love with Nasir! He wishes to become my husband."  
"Which man do you love more?"  
"I cannot answer that! The choice is clear as it must be! There are...facts to take into account..." She glanced again at the letter. And Zainab noticed.  
"Facts? Like the fact that the man you have truly been in love with for eight years even though you did not dare admit it has a wife that you respect highly?"  
Rana pulled away, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. _'I will not cry again!'_ she told herself fiercely, and pretended to scratch her nose to secretly wipe away the damning wetness.

"A man may have more than one wife. Your Master could marry you. Such things are legal." Zainab said very quietly, carefully. Rana lowered her hand and slowly turned to face her friend. Her eyes were suddenly very wide and full of alarm. She could not speak. Her heart had somehow stopped beating, and she could not feel her body.  
"Rana? I am sorry, I did not mean to upset you. Please forget I said anything, it was clumsy of me." Zainab gave her shoulder another pat, looking disconcerted. Rana hardly felt it.  
"I am...supposed to be in love with Nasir." she said stupidly, casting about for a reason to deny the truth of what Zainab had just said.  
"I heard you this morning. It was not the sound of a woman in love with another man. It was the sound of a woman in love with the person she was with right at that moment."  
"You cannot know that from barely-heard noises that are twenty feet away! It was my first time, nothing more than that!"  
Zainab looked at her knowingly, an expression that Rana found infuriating. "I will not say more and risk angering you, Rana. You are my friend, the only one I have here. If you say it is not so, then it is not. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps you are simply a very devoted slave. Please excuse my foolishness."  
"Don't do that!"  
"Do what?"  
"Talk to me the way I used to talk to Mullah Khaled! I hate it!"  
They stared at one another, and then Zainab's face broke into a smile in spite of her best efforts to fight it off. She covered her mouth with her hand, but an unmistakeable giggle escaped. Rana started to snap at her, but then found that she too felt the urge to smile. It had been a bit of a funny thing to say. Not so long ago Rana had indeed spoken to the Mullah in just sich a self-effacing manner. He expected and encouraged it, as most men did. She bit back a laugh. And then they were laughing together and all the tension that had been building vanished in the absurdity of the game they played when they were feeling threatened. They had both been raised to be self-effacing and obedient. Rana fully appreciated for the first time that she and Zainab were very similar.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, and Zainab smiled and nodded.  
The rest of the afternoon passed very comfortably, with Rana and Zainab washing clothes and sheets together, tapping dents out of spare armor, laughing and talking, mending sandals and preparing dinner. Zainab seemed to be relaxing finally, the stress of being secluded for three days with nothing but her thoughts and anticipation to distract her was wearing off. She looked over at Rana, sitting at ease across from her, and smiled a more genuine smile than she had in weeks. Everything was going to be all right.


	11. Love and War

Author's Note - Before one more person sends me a private e-mail asking about the seemingly arbitrary capitalizations of the word 'Master', allow me to briefly explain. When Rana says it or thinks it, it is capitalized for the same reason the name 'God' is capitalized. When anyone else says or thinks it, they do not have the same emotions in their minds, and I have chosen to indicate this through the lower-case. Sorry for the confusion. The music for this chapter is 'Fields of Gold' by Eva Cassidy. Thanks for the suggestion, Hannah. - The Noble Rot

* * *

Love and War

Evening wore on, and the sun began to set. Zainab and Rana were playing chess together on the floor, the chores completed and the air heavy with the warm scent of frankincense burning in the brazier, the silver teapot set above the oil lamp to warm. Zainab was a brilliant chess player, but after hundreds of games with Salahuddin Rana won the majority of the matches. They were intent on their game when Rana heard her Master's footsteps outside the tent. She smiled at Zainab and rose to her feet.  
"Thank you so much for keeping me company today." she said, and Zainab got up to leave, smiling as well. She started to speak, but the words died on her lips when Salahuddin entered the tent.  
Rana could tell instantly that something was terribly wrong. And from the looks on the faces of Mullah Khaled and Nasir who came behind him it was a matter that involved the entire army. She withdrew as the men seated themselves and began to speak, wordlessly taking the teapot down from its hook and filling three cups. She handed one to Zainab with a meaningful look, and Zainab gratefully too it to the man who would be her husband and stood behind him after he'd accepted the drink, ready to serve him should he need anything.

"A peaceful caravan. They had no weapons, no hope." Nasir said, and he shook his head in sorrow.

"Reynauld of Chatillon must pay for this outrage! How long will we remain passive and trust to that aging leper to keep his dogs in check?!" Mullah Khaled demanded.

"Do you call the sacking of Aubrin _passive_, Khaled?" Nasir asked. He did not approve of the Mullah's tone when he spoke to Salahuddin. It seemed to him that Khaled did not respect the Sultan as much as he ought to.  
Rana privately agreed, but said nothing. When she handed her Master the cup of hot tea his fingertips brushed against the inside of her wrist, and she was certain it was no accident. Nasir saw this, and a muscle tightened in his jaw.

"Aubrin is a minor victory in the fabric of greater defeat. We have not had true bloodshed in far too long. The time for action is _now_! It would be advisable to show the people that their Sultan is not afraid of the enemy!" Khaled snapped at him. He turned his angry gaze back to Salahuddin, who sat quietly in thought. Nasir started to speak, his eyes blazing, but his master held up a hand and silenced them all.

"We will go to Kerak. And we will punish this bloodthirsty European. He has raided and slaughtered across the land with no respect for the rules of war. It is well known that he has a powerful backer in the person of the Princess's Templar husband. This will send a message that the Muslim people are not to be subjugated"  
"Excellent!" said Mullah Khaled, a look of fierce joy on his handsome face. He shot a contemptuous glance at Nasir, who to his credit did not return it.  
"As you wish, my Lord." Nasir said softly, his own opinions not getting at all in the way of his desire to do the bidding of Salahuddin. He met Rana's eyes, and his face softened.  
"How many will we take for this seige, my master?"

"The entire encampment. If we are to send a message, let it be a clear one. Make ready to go, and tell the others to prepare their battalions. We leave in two days."  
"As you wish it." Nasir said again. He bowed deeply and immediately left to make ready the army that was under his direct command. Rana watched him go, then slipped quietly out after him, running to catch up.

"General, would a scout be useful?"  
"The trained scouts, yes. But you will not place yourself in danger this time. I will not allow you anywhere near that murderous bastard, Rana. You cannot fathom what he is personally capable of! If you were captured, the very fact that you are a woman would make you a prisoner of note. Enough to attract his attention."  
"But I would not - "  
He shook his head firmly, and she fell silent.  
"Not this time, little one. True, you might not be captured. You are very quick, and good at avoiding danger. But it is a possibility, and a disastrous one. I will not force Salahuddin to choose between maintaining a seige and liberating you from torment. He is a strong man, and the choice would kill him because he would not be able to save you. Not with the mullahs and the other holy men clamoring for the swift return of Jerusalem to Muslim control. They have all the power in this war. It is why we have been, " he pondered his next word carefully, "_Graced_ with the presence of Mullah Khaled. He is a highly respected and very well-connected man. His eyes are always on Salahuddin."  
Rana tilted her head quizically.  
"I did not know this. I thought he was only here to offer support to the ummah, the Islamic family. To care for our souls in the face of torment and death."  
"It is not your place to know the politics of this war, Rana. It is your place to wash the Sultan's clothing."  
"For now. But I could be more valuable. and I will be," she conceded defeat this time, "after you have trained me."  
Nasir smiled grimly and nodded. "Good girl. Now I must go. Return to your master's tent, little Rana. And listen carefully whenever the Mullah is about. It is good that you have befriended the girl who will become his wife. Perhaps he will speak openly with her, and she to you. Your loyalty is to your Master and he alone, correct?"  
She raised her chin a notch. "To the death."

Nasir's eyes lingered on her lips for a moment, and then he turned away to rally the men, his dark hair gleaming in the sunset.

Rana watched him go, biting her lip, then returned to the tent just in time to see the Mullah emerge. He looked her over.  
"Well, little Rana, it would appear that your desire for action is about to be granted."  
"My lord?"  
"We will be moving the camp soon. And there will be war. You will have much to do, and your duties should distract you from the mischeif you have been getting yourself into."  
"Thank you for thinking of me, Mullah Khaled," Rana said, her voice humble. "By the way, did you notice the girl who handed you tea inside?"  
"I did. She was quite lovely. What is her name?"  
"Zainab. She is to be your wife." And with that, she left him standing in the sun, a look of surprise on his face.

Zainab was still in the tent, sitting quietly in the corner and watching Salahuddin with rigid attention. He in turn was contemplating a small map of the region surrounding Kerak, his eyes memorizing every aspect of the landscape.  
"Master, how may I serve you?" Rana asked, bowing her head. Her Master looked up.  
"Come and kneel here by my side, Rana."  
She did as she was asked, and Zainab in the corner saw that the atmosphere within the room had altered, becoming more private and less amenable to intrusion. She quietly stood up and moved toward the door, slipping out unnoticed and closing the tent flap behind her.

Rana dropped to her knees next to her Master and looked up into his eyes. He looked exhausted and deeply troubled, and she fought down an urge to take his face in her hands and kiss him. She glanced at the letter on the table again.  
"My king, your wife has sent you a message." she said quietly, using all of her fortitude to keep the jealousy from her voice. Salahuddin reached over and picked it up, unrolling the crisp parchment and reading it quickly, twice. His gaze softened, and he say back in his chair with a sigh.  
"Another son. She asks that I send back a name for the child. And she has included a message for you." He handed Rana the letter, and with moist eyes she took it and began to read.

_'Assalamu Alaikum, my beloved husband,_

_I was sorry to hear of the death of one of your mullahs. I hope that his family will survive the loss. We will remember him in our prayers. Please keep yourself safe, and may Allah guide your footsteps home to us once more.  
To know that you will be reading these words brings me a mixture of both joy and suffering. Your presence lights the whole world, but knowing how far you are from my arms and my affection deeply saddens my heart. If love is the most glorious of feelings, the pain of being seperated must surely be the very worst. But I await you with gladness, knowing that your actions are making the world a better place for every Muslim that draws breath this day.  
Our newest son was born three days ago. He is healthy and beautiful like his father, but his eyes are bright green like mine. Please send me the name you would like for him as soon as you are able. I have simply been calling him 'darling'! The last time I saw you, you were riding away on your black horse surrounded by warriors who would be willing to die for you. I shall never forget how handsome you looked, and how fierce. Every time I close my eyes I can see you, and it brings me hope for our people. You are truly a gift to all of Islam from Allah, my love. It is my honor to be the woman that you have chosen.  
Please give my love to dear little Rana, who will be turning fifteen soon and must be worried about whether or not you will be giving her in marriage to one of your men. I ask that you consider allowing her to choose what she desires. My heart tells me that she would rather remain unmarried all of her life if it would mean having the ability to serve you. I have never seen such a devoted slave. Tell her that I want her to care for you with all of her strength every day. To be there if nightmares steal your sleep. To bind your wounds and make you laugh and make certain that you're eating enough. Tell her that it is good to love you with all of her soul. Any woman who has felt the weight of your gaze must love you, else she is no true woman. Tell her that I know how she feels better than even she does, that women know these things. And tell her that I love her as both a sister and a daughter.  
Keep yourself well, my husband. When you return, I will be here. No matter the manner of your homecoming, be it alive and well or in body only with your soul passed to Paradise, I will be here to receive you. A woman waits. That is the way of it._

_Your Jamila'_

Rana looked up to find that he was staring at her, gauging her reaction with his eyes.  
"She is very kind."

Salahuddin nodded. "And intelligent. Her understanding of the workings of the soul is much greater than mine."  
"My Master. I should...I should prepare your supper. And warm the oil for your massage. And...and - "

He was taking her hand in his and pulling her closer, slowly, into his arms. Rana could not resist, could never have resisted. Her confusion was too great to withstand. And then, without warning, the intensity of his gaze terrified her, the reality of her love being returned made her feel lost and frightened. She turned her eyes away.  
"Rana," he whispered, "I will not hurt you. I know what pain it is you bear."  
"I am in love with you."  
"Always have I known. It is my fault for being too permissive with you, and you bear no responsibility."  
Rana had no answer to this, and after a time her Master released her and stood up. He was quite obviously agitated over the impending seige, and Rana felt it best to say no more for the time. She moved about the tent, preparing dinner and turning down his bed and drawing a basin of water for his evening washing. She set a small dish of oil high above the lamp to warm gently, and added the steamed yarrow leaves to the mixture. As she did so, the wound on her side pulled open again and she gasped.  
Her Master looked up sharply from the map.  
"What is it?"  
"I fell. From the rock. Nasir is training me to become a scout. I was clumsy, my Master, but I am not seriously hurt. I will be well. Please do not trouble yourself over it."  
"Shall I send for the physician?"  
"No, Master. I have cleaned and bandaged the wound."  
He nodded, returning his eyes to the paper. Rana completed her tasks and returned to kneel at his side, her head against his knee. She thought again and again of the letter form his wife, the special message to her that seemed to speak directly to the situation at hand. Did Jamila somehow sense what was happening?

More fear glossed her mind. They would be going to Kerak soon. Rana had heard many terrible things about Reynauld de Chatillion from some of the other slaves. He was a complete monster with an insatiable lust for blood and pain. The seige was certain to be hell itself, but attacking an unarmed caravan was too horrible a crime to go unpunished. she supported her Master's decision completely.

After a long while, Salahuddin finally set the map aside, looking grave. Rana withdrew to the corner of the tent to give him time to think, keeping her silence until he called for her. Not for the first time, she watched him from the shadows as he moved about the tent. She averted her eyes as he undressed to bathe, feeling uncertain and oddly light-headed.

When he had finished, she rose and went to him without a word, taking the warm oil down from the brazier and motioning for him to lie on the bed. He did so silently, and she began to gently rub the oil into his muscles. The feel of her hands gliding over him was distracting, and she slowed her movements, trying to think clearly. For an hour she sat beside him, moving her hands over his body until the tenseness through his shoulders and back began to ease. She tried not to notice how beautiful his glistening skin looked in the candlelight, or how he trembled slightly when she passed her fingertips gently down his spine. After a time, he sat up and nodded his thanks to her, and Rana withdrew once more into the shadows.

_'...she would rather remain unmarried all of her life if it would mean having the ability to serve you...'_

He clothed himself in a simple robe of purest black linen, the wan light from the candle casting his faint shadow on the wall. Outside there was the sound of drums and revelry. The men were celebrating their impending battle.

_'If love is the most glorious of feelings, the pain of being seperated must surely be the very worst..."_

Rana watched him sit down and idly pick at his simple supper. He seemed distracted, displeased with the way the war was going. The butchering of his countrymen hurt him far worse than the enemy even realized. Only Rana knew the silent, unashamed tears he sometimes shed after the night prayer when the dead were finally buried. Rana saw them, and had wiped them away with her fingertips before.

_'I want her to care for you with all of her strength every day. To be there if nightmares steal your sleep. To make you laugh...'_

He pushed the half-full plate away and washed his hands, then picked up the worn Qu'ran that lay in a place of honor on a shelf by his bed. His lips moving slightly, he began to read.

_'You are truly a gift to all of Islam from Allah, my love. It is my honor to be the woman that you have chosen...'_

Rana reached up and removed her hijab, letting her tangled curls fall free across her brow. She silently rose to her feet and untied the gown she wore, letting it slip to the floor, standing naked and shivering in the chilly air of the night-kissed desert. Her cuts and bruises stung as she took up the cloth her Master had recently used and passed it over herself, down her legs and across her stomach, beneath her small breasts and carefully over the wound on her side.

_'Tell her that I know how she feels better than even she does, that women know these things...'_

There was the soft sound of a book being closed, and a candle being blown out. Then the nearly silent catlike footfalls behind her, a warm hand in the darkness, the scent of a warrior.

_'...A woman waits. That is the way of it...'_

Lips against the back of her neck, and she was helping him draw the robe up and over his head so that they stood naked together in the dark. No words were spoken. There was nothing to say.

_'Tell her that it is good to love you with all of her soul. Any woman who has felt the weight of your gaze must love you, else she is no true woman...'_

_

* * *

_


	12. Khaled and Zainab

Author's Note - I will be starting graduate school next week. Working toward a Master's Degree in Religious Studies leaves very little time for anythig else. But I love this story very much, and I will not abandon it. Check back often over the next week or so. I promise you will not be disappointed. Thank you so much, faithful few, for taking the time to read. Shukran jazeelan. - The Noble Rot

* * *

Khaled and Zainab

When dawn stole across the oasis it merely illuminated the work that had been going on since the night before. Siege towers were pulled into lines, trebuchets packed and ready, supplies gathered and the entire camp in a state of near-readiness.

Rana moved quickly through the camp, helping wherever she was needed, as her Master had risen early to begin planning the attack with Nasir and the lesser commanders. Such meetings had to occur in complete secrecy, and so Rana had been sent out with instructions to assist the other slaves in preparing their masters for the journey.

She spotted Aisha ahead through the throng, and made her way over to the girl.

"Assalamu alaikum, my friend."

"Alaikum salam." Aisha replied, but she did not look up. Rana knelt beside her, helping her to tie the cords around a large bundle of spare clothing. She felt completely rested and prepared for the day's activities. There was much work to be done, and a fire seemed to be sweeping through the hearts of the soldiers and servants alike as they set about doing it.

For the first time in far too long, the mighty Muslim armies were banding together, runners having been sent to the surrounding camps of war to rally every last man to Kerak. A hundred thousand and more were expected to mass, every last son, father and brother taking up swords and shields, bows and arrows, and answering the call of one man. In all the history of the Islamic people, only once before had a single person commanded such power. The Prophet. And now another leader had arisen during a time of great need to lead the faithful out of hell.

Salahuddin Ayyubi, born in 1137 in the great nation of Syria. In him, nature very harmoniously blended the benevolent and merciful heart of a Muslim with a matchless military genius. Dauntless courage and indomitable will defined him, and the Christians were no match for his strength. Behind him the people felt safe, safer than they had in centuries, and only his continued momentum kept the fear at bay. Nearly a hundred years before, in 1099, the vile European hordes, calling themselves 'Crusaders', marched into the city of Jerusalem and butchered every last soul within its walls. The women, the children, the young and old, the strong and weak...all murdered. Burned alive, thrown from the towers, dragged through the streets by knights on horses, chopped bloody in front of their own families. The Christians showed no mercy, and won a bloody and vicious victory.

These savage events were still fresh in the minds of the people, and Templars like Reynauld kept the memories alive by behaving in the same manner. Only Salahuddin's legendary chivalry and temperance kept the Muslim armies from sinking to the same level. Prisoners were to be treated fairly, even those who were slated to be executed, no women or children were to be harmed, as little blood as possible was to be spilled. His mercy extended even to the cold-hearted Templar bastards who mocked his kindness and called him weak. In two days, the true cowards would be unveiled. Salahuddin's mercy had been stretched to its limit. The attack of an unarmed caravan in direct defiance of a long-standing truce was more than any ruler could bear.

Rana stood up, taking Aisha's bundle of clothing onto her back. She was stronger than her friend and did not mind the added weight. Together they walked toward one of the half-loaded carts, and Rana carefully tucked the clothing in among hundreds of others like it. She turned to Aisha with a smile.

"How can you look so happy at a time like this?" Aisha asked, and Rana shrugged.

"The prospect of infidel blood being spilled is not a joy to me, my sister. I wish that this whole war were over. But the knowledge that we march toward certain victory is comforting."

Aisha shook her head, completely disagreeing.

"No victory is certain. We could all die there."

"Your faith is astounding."

"I am realistic, Rana. Not everyone is as fierce as you are."

"No. But they should be."

Aisha's master, Yasan the messenger, came to the two of them where they stood and frowned down at Rana, of whom he did not approve. Not since the day she'd told him off for slapping Aisha. It had been six years, but he still had not forgotten.

"Shouldn't the king's pet animal be chained up somewhere?" he asked, his handsome features twisted into a sneer of contempt. In that instant Rana recalled vividly the taste of blood on her lips, the feeling of pushing the infidel guard from the top of the wall in Aubrin, the way she'd had to spit out the rubbery tendons after tearing them from his throat with her teeth.

She smiled a wolf's smile, and Yasan's eyes narrowed.

"You are obviously not beaten enough. Were you my slave, I assure you that you would be."

"Thank you for your suggestion, my lord. Perhaps you should offer this advice to my Master. He is always looking for ways to control me." Rana said, her voice holding a slight edge of sarcasm under the humility.

"I am certain he is." Yasan hissed, "But maybe he should abandon the search and instead start looking for places to bury your corpse. It would rid him of the torment of having such a willful slave."

Aisha did not dare speak out, but her head hung in shame and she could not look at her friend. Yasan took her roughly by the arm.

"Come, kaniz, slave girl. I will not have you soiled by this creature."

He pulled her away, and Rana watched them go with a half-hearted anger burning in her stomach. She could not feel truly vengeful toward a fellow Muslim, It was simply not in her nature. But Yasan's comments did sting. Implying that her Master secretly disliked her was a blow she found more difficult to recover from than any she had received as fair punishment. In truth, her Master had never struck her himself. The five whippings she had received over the past eight years had all been carried out by Mullah Khaled. The Sultan could not bring himself to harm her.

She touched the side of her face, just under her ear and along her jaw, where Salahuddin had rained kisses upon her in the darkness a few hours before. He had been incredibly gentle, a far cry from their first encounter, touching her battered body with his fingertips as lightly as the wings of a butterfly. There was very little pain, so slowly and carefully did he take her. And her pleasure had soared to levels a thousand times more intense because of his patient ministrations. It was not the sort of thing a man would do for one he did not love. Her rage cooled.

The remainder of the day passed in a state of heightened activity, and Rana seldom had a chance to sit down. During the afternoon prayer the wound in her side opened again when she bent forward and it took an additional half hour to clean up the mess and re-bandage the area. After this, she found herself walking in the direction of Zainab's tent, hoping to assist her in her packing.

Hearing voices emanating from within, Rana paused outside the door.

"...did not come to me upon my initial arrival?" Zainab was asking someone, and there was the tiniest touch of hurt sparkling in her voice.

"That is because I was uncomfortable with the situation. I sent for you based on your letter, but when you actually arrived I became nervous." It was Mullah Khaled, and Rana was deeply surprised to hear the open emotion with which he spoke. To admit to a young girl that he felt nervous, to part briefly the veil that he covered his heart with at all times, was a thing she had not expected him to do.

Shamelessly, her curiosity getting the best of her, Rana leaned down and pretended to work at the laces of her sandal, all the better to hear them.

Inside the tent, Zainab was fully aware of Rana's presence, having seen her shadow move on the wall of the tent. She did not mind...all that she and her prospective husband spoke of would undoubtedly be repeated and analyzed with her friend later when there was time.

Zainab looked to the Mullah as he stood with his arms folded in the center of the tent, completely still. Another man would have sat down, leaned against a support post, paced a bit perhaps. She found Khaled's rigid discipline both unnerving and fascinating.

"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. It was noble of you to send for me. And now, having seen me, do you wish me to pull away during this journey to Kerak that the camp will be undertaking? I will honor my part of the bargain if you do not find me to your liking."

"I did not say this."

"I know, my lord."

He did not look away from her, noting with approval the still way she sat, her hands folded modestly in her lap, her hijab pinned close about her attractive face and the folds of her abaya curled demurely around her slim ankles. Perfect submission...until he looked into her eyes.

She was looking directly back at him.

A Muslima did not make eye contact with a man unless she was married to him. The only other woman who dared to lift her gaze to his eyes was Rana, and when she did it he found her boldness infuriating.

When Zainab looked at him, however, he felt a thrill of challenge course up his spine. And very few men of his nature could back away from a challenge.

She remained silent, watching him, waiting for his answer with infinite patience.

"I did not want a wife."

"Yes, my lord."

Khaled did not move closer to her, did not move at all, but his eyes softened and she suddenly felt the tension in the room lessen.

"You are lovely. I am impressed by your behavior and I think that you would suit me very well. See that you do not become as your new friend Rana the Bedouin. I would not approve."

"Rana is very high-spirited, but there is no evil in her."

"I did not say that there was. I do not believe that Allah would allow evil to penetrate the innocence of a child."

"She is not as much of a child as you would think, my lord. Not any longer. I pray that you give her the opportunity to prove her worthiness before you dismiss her out of turn."

Khaled raised an eyebrow quizzically, looking at Zainab with amusement.

"The girl has been examined recently, she is still a child. And as such she should know her place and keep in it. Her master has been far to lenient with her. Only I was ever able to keep the wildness of her soul in check. She respects God, if no one else."

"You do not approve of Rana's master, do you?"

It was a question designed to disarm the Mullah, for Zainab had discovered long ago that the best way to discern a man's true feelings was to keep him off balance as often as possible. But Khaled was not like other men, and he did not falter in the face of her probing query. Zainab noticed this with respect.

"I support Salahuddin's rule as long as he provides the people with enough victories. God alone decides whether battles are won or lost, and God's favor upon our leader can be measured by his conquests."

"And have there been enough of these?"

"Barely. The war has been long and bloody. And our master is sometimes more merciful to the infidels that he should be. God does not favor them. Nor should we."

Zainab nodded slowly, understanding better than he realized what the full implication of his words was. It meant, among other things, that there was a great deal of tension between the religious leaders and the military. She felt it wise not to question further along this vein. Not for now.

"Rana has spoken for you on a few occasions. She tells me that you are kind and noble, and that you saved a starving dog and defended an old woman and all sorts of other merciful deeds."

Khaled acknowledge the truth of her words with a slight nod, but modesty forbade him from elaborating.

"I will marry you, Zainab." he said, and there was finality in his words.

Though her face did not betray even the barest hint of it, Zainab felt a tidal wave of relief wash across her.

"I thank you for your kindness, Mullah Khaled. I will serve you well."

He approached her, going down on one knee to better look into her eyes.

"I believe you will, Zainab. And I will protect and provide for you as best I can on the field of war. Insh'allah, God willing, we will not have to endure the struggles of battle for more than another year."

"I would endure a hundred thousand days of hardship if I was assured of your homecoming every night, Mullah Khaled." Zainab said, lowering her voice to a tender caress. She was pleased to see a glimmer of something akin to desire flicker deep in Khaled's fathomless black eyes. He _could_ be affected by words. They just had to be the right ones.

He seemed to sense that his continued presence could lead to impropriety, and rose to his feet again. Zainab followed him with her gaze as he withdrew from the tent.

"I shall come for you in ten days. The mullah from Aleppo will have to be sent later than expected due to this push toward Kerak. But he will be here. And then..." He trailed off. Zainab smiled.

"And then I will belong only to you." she finished for him.

Khaled studied her for another moment, then finally nodded. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but thought better of it and left.

Rana heard him moving toward the door and straightened up, acting as though she was only just arriving at the tent.

"Rana, what are you doing here?"

"My Master is meeting with his generals to plan for the battle. He told me that if I saw you I was to send you to him, my lord. Please forgive my intrusion if you are busy." Rana answered, trying hard to keep her tone as respectful as Zainab's had been. She very much wanted Mullah Khaled to approve of her. It seemed to work, for he smiled slightly as he looked down at her.

"Thank you, Rana. And thank you for bringing Zainab to your tent yesterday. It is good that I saw her."

"She is wonderful. I am very happy that you like her." Rana said, forgetting entirely that she was not supposed to know this information yet. But he did not seem to register this fact, his quiet happiness at finding Zainab to be ten times as good as he had hoped making him mellow and damping his ever-present temper.

"She is indeed. The wedding will be in ten days. I trust you to prepare her for this event. Even though we are at war I would still like it to be a pleasant experience for her. Will you see to it?"

"Yes, my lord. I will do as you say." Rana bowed to him, and again he smiled.

"You are becoming as you once were, child. See that this new respectful streak continues and I may have to rethink my opinion of you." Khaled said, a touch of humor in his voice. And then he moved past her and toward the tent of her Master, a new briskness in his walk.

Rana waited perhaps three seconds before running into Zainab's tent to discuss the news, all thoughts of impending battle and the hard march ahead driven out in a rush of delight that her favorite teacher had finally found love, and that he seemed to like her again.

"Good of you to come inside, Rana." Zainab said, and there was humor in her eyes.

"You knew I was there?"

"You will one day make a very good scout, but you must remember to never stand between the light and the fabric of a tent. Your shadow gave you away."

"There must be a thousand shadows passing outside! The whole camp is astir!"

"Yes, but your shadow is very recognizable. You are too small to be a warrior and too fidgety to be a boy."

Rana grinned, looking as unlike her cool-eyed friend as it was possible for a girl to look. Zainab was impeccably dressed and clean, her hair completely covered and her face hauntingly beautiful. A few of Rana's curls were escaping from under her covering, her knees were dirty and there was a smudge of grime on her cheek. Her eyes were wild and she looked ready to fly apart.

"He is falling in love with you. This is excellent! It will distract him from irritating my Master."

"Mullah Khaled is simply looking out for the interests of the people. I am just as loyal to him as you are to Salahuddin." Zainab retorted, and Rana sighed.

"I would expect no less." she admitted, and glanced around the room. "Have you many things to pack? I could help you."

"I brought very little with me, thinking that perhaps I would have to make a swift exit in the dead of night at some point."

Rana sat down, listening intently. Zainab had told her about the letter she'd written to Khaled, of course, but there were still many questions.

"What was so bad about your cousin? You have never told me."

Zainab looked, for the first time since Rana had met her, as though she were recalling some awful torture that lay in the past. Her eyes closed, and she covered them with her hands.

"Omar is...an animal. No, no even animals have some compassion. He is a demon."

"What did he do to you?"

"Not to me, my friend. Understand that what I am about to tell you is never to be repeated."

Rana nodded, feeling her ire rising at this Omar for whatever awful thing he did to make Zainab so unhappy. After a deep breath, Zainab told her.

"Omar has two wives already, and he treats them with unimaginable cruelty. When the younger wife became pregnant there was a great deal of rejoicing, for it was hoped that she would soon give birth to a boy. But when the child was born it was seen that she was a girl. Omar was livid. He believed that his wife had somehow practiced witchcraft to influence the sex of the baby, for she had mentioned once that she very much wished for a daughter. Three days after she had given birth, he came into her bedroom where she nursed the infant and threw them both to the floor, kicking his wife and beating her mercilessly. My family lived in the house next to them, and I heard Khadija's screams of pain through my open window. I took up my father's shovel and ran to her aide, breaking through the door and stumbling into the room where her torture was taking place. The child on the floor was screaming, Khadija was screaming, and Omar whirled on me and hit me in the side of the face. I did not drop the shovel. I swung, and opened a gash across his right eye that blinded him. He attacked me, throwing me to the floor and shouting the most foul curses I have ever heard. His hands closed about my neck, but then he seemed to reconsider. I will never forget the look that came into his face as he lay atop me on the floor with his nails digging into my throat. He picked me up and threw me from the room, slamming the door behind me, and I heard him speak soothingly to Khadija. She is a stupid girl, but had suffered much and must be excused for allowing him to comfort her."

Zainab paused, taking a small sip of water from the wooden cup beside her. Rana's eyes were filled with tears, her hands clenched in fury. After a moment, Zainab continued.

"I said nothing of the incident to anyone, knowing that if I did it would spell Khadija's death, and certainly the death of her daughter. A week later my father died on the sea where he had gone with Omar and another man to gather food for the market. It was a calm day and the vessel a good one, but Omar returned alone and bleeding past midnight with tales of a great fish that pulled the other men into the water and drowned them. I knew then that he was planning to make of me a wife, to punish and break me for being the only one in all the world who dared to defy him. I was correct. A day after my father's untimely and unnatural death Omar came to my mother, who was poor and distraught and weak. He offered to marry me and take care of me in my father's stead, and my mother asked for one day to consider this. It was in this day that the mother of Mullah Khaled came to pay her respects to my family after the loss we had suffered, and in agony my mother poured out the sorrows of her heart to this kind woman. My tongue was turned to stone with grief and I could not speak, not even to tell of the horrible afternoon that had set these events in motion. So moved was she by my plight, and knowing the evil rumors of my cousin's behavior as all women in the town knew, she promised on the spot that her son would wish to marry me. My mother told this to Omar, and he was not pleased. He vowed to fight for my hand, for only in gaining control over me would he be able to break me fully. I knew of Khaled the Mullah through his reputation as a wise scholar and just man. And my situation was desperate, so I agreed. Writing the letter was my final hope for escape from utter hell on Earth."

"And Khaled sent for you."

"He did. I owe him my life. Now do you see why I am so devoted to him? I would be lying in a pool of blood right now, perhaps clutching at my broken bones and trying to scream without a tongue. Omar is ruthless. But instead I am far away in the war encampment of my husband, and the protection of a mullah is upon me. Omar would not dare come for me here. At least...I think he would not."

Rana wiped the tears from her eyes and hugged her friend.

"Oh Zainab," she sighed, squeezing her, "My dear Zainab. I truly hope that he does!"

Zainab pulled back, looking shocked.

"You would want him to come here? To hurt and maybe even kill Khaled?"

Rana's face broke into a smile, and it was not a pleasant smile. Her dark Bedouin eyes flashed.

"Kill Khaled?" she repeated, "Kill a mullah under the protection of Salahuddin? With the entire army gathered around him?"

"Omar is very sly."

"So am I, Zainab. These teeth and Nasir's second best sword say that Omar will never touch you. I swear to God that to do so would bring him a swift and bloody end." Rana said, and now there was no smile. Her eyes were hard and cold as stone, and Zainab suddenly saw what it was about the willful slave that held the fascination of two such great men.

"You would fight for me?"

"If necessary. But I do not think I will have to."

"Because Omar would never dare to be so stupid as to come here?"

"No. Because Mullah Khaled also carries a sword, and it is not an ornament."


	13. The Sultan Frees a Slave

Author's Note - This chapter was extremely hard for me to write (still crying, actually), and therefore I beg you to be gentle when you review. Everything will be ok, I promise. Trust me. - The Noble Rot

* * *

The Sultan Frees a Slave

By the time Rana was allowed to return to her tent it was well past the night prayer, and she was exhausted. Nasir met her by the entrance, and he too looked as though he had had a very long and trying day. There was worry in his eyes, and when he leaned down to brush a kiss across her brow he whispered quickly a few words.  
"The terrain surrounding Kerak is unforgiving, and water is not readily available. This will be very hard."  
"I trust the armies, my lord."  
He looked down at her, touched by her devotion.  
"And why is that?"

"Because a lion leads them."  
Nasir laughed softly, tiredly, and touched the side of her face. Love warmed his eyes. He seemed to have forgiven her for her indiscretion. An indiscretion, Rana thought uncomfortably, that had happened twice now and was likely to happen again. Her heart gave a little spasm of pain, and she dropped her gaze. Nasir pulled her against him for a brief hug.  
"Little Rana, do not look so grave. All will be well. Go now, to our master. The lion is weary and needs rest. Mullah Khaled was much kinder to him today, but there is no disguising the amount of pressure being placed on all of us to take Kerak and kill its baron. When we travel, you do not have to ride with the women. Your master has agreed to let you ride a horse just behind the officers, in the armor and guise of a scout, of course."  
Rana's eyes lit up, and she looked again into Nasir's face with joy.  
"Thank you! Thank you, my lord! I will not be in the way!"  
"I know you will not. But you are not to join the fight. Never, Rana. Your place is elsewhere. Now go." He returned her smile, and for a moment Rana saw the look in his eyes that she had always dreamed of seeing, the look that she'd longed for when she was younger. Even a month ago, actually. And now? Now the look of love and desire he gave her caused a thrill of adoration to course up her spine, and she felt herself blushing. It was all too much.

"Nasir..." she breathed, but he held a gentle finger to her lips to silence her next words.  
"I have not asked him yet, Rana. I have not asked him for your hand. It will be his decision, you know this"  
Rana nodded her understanding.

"You are in my heart. I hope that your sleep is deep and restful this night."  
"And yours...my...my love. Nasir, I do love you"  
He was so handsome, so gentle and noble and kind. The blood and death of war did not please him, and when mercy was called for it was often with his voice above all others.

"And I love you, Rana. Your love has always been returned, though I lacked the words to express it. I am sorry for that. Perhaps things would have been slightly different had I spoken sooner."  
Nasir leaned down and kissed her cheek, gently and with great tenderness. Rana closed her eyes, the pounding of her heart suddenly easing. He did not make her nervous, and the idea of his love was not too great a thing for her mind to comprehend. It was the difference, she thought, between loving a man and loving God. One was natural and the heart was created to handle it. The other was far too big, too intense, and a woman could go mad trying to contemplate its power. She looked up at him, and he was beautiful in a simple way that she could understand. She smiled hesitantly, and he kissed her cheek again, slower.  
"Rest well, my love." Nasir said.

And he took his leave of her, squeezing her hand before turning to make his way to the tent nearby where he slept. Rana slipped quietly into her own tent, going at once to her Master where he stood by the opposit entrance, staring out at the pale sliver of the crescent moon above the banners of his army.

"Ostayze, how may I serve you?" she asked, bowing. He turned around, and the moment his eyes met hers she felt all of the innocence and purity flee from her soul. The pounding of her heart resumed, faster and heavier this time. The place on her cheek where Nasir had kissed her seemed to tingle feebly, then the sensation faded alltogether. Rana honestly, at that moment, wished that she had never been born. Nothing could have been more painful and tempestuous than this wretched indecision, this love that knew no end, this agony of helpless worship. There was no room for any other man in her heart, and she was a fool to think there ever could be. The suddeness of this reversal of emotions made her dizzy. She looked at the floor and felt the ever-present distress steal her smile.

Her master put a hand to her shoulder.  
"You must be very tired, little one." he said gently.  
"And you, sir. I understand better now the pressure you are under form the mullahs. My friend Zainab is about to marry Mullah Khaled. She talks freely to me. I will share all that I know with you, my Master. I am sure she expects no less."  
"Thank you, habibiti. Your loyalty touches the heart of an old man."  
"Not so old, my king." Rana bit her lip, feeling hot and itchy despite the cool night air. It was the burning in her blood that did it, that and the nearness of her lord. He pulled the tent closed and tied it, sighing wearily. It had been a very trying day, and he was not at all confident about the attack. But it was a necessary move, and he would not falter in his duty. He never faltered in his duties.

Rana moved away to do her chores, trying with all of her might to still the waves that rolled through her soul. Calm waters, calm thoughts used to reign freely. And now it seemed there was a tempest all the time. If she was not careful, the fragile boat of her heart would vanish beneath the sea and all would be lost. The time now was for determination, strength, and fearlessness. Cowering like a child in the face of such strong emotions would not serve her. Somehow, some way, she had to make a decision. She looked into her heart, and there it was. Simple as birth and clear as morning. Rana knew, watching the Sultan as he read in the corner, exactly what she desired.

She straightened her spine and took a deep breath.  
"My Master, may we speak?" she asked, moving to kneel before him once more. He set aside the maps and turned his full attention to her, his gaze impossible to read.  
"Nasir wishes to ask for my hand."  
"I am aware. What is it you want, child?"  
"I do not know. I will do as you say"  
Salahuddin closed his eyes, rubbing his temple to relieve the headache that had been plaguing him since dawn.  
"Little Rana, he would make an excellent husband for you, and you have told me that you love him. It is a simple matter."  
"Not so simple, my beloved Sultan. My heart is split in two."  
"But your mind may heal this breach and move you forward down the correct path."  
"I belong to you."  
"In body only, as every slave is owned. Your heart and mind are free to move as they will. And if you are married to Nasir you will be freed. I had planned to give you your freedom when you turned sixteen at any rate."  
This was a surprise to Rana, and she sat back on her heels to stare at him.  
"You would have done this?"  
"I swear it."  
"But why? I would never have left your side! You would have had to drive me away at the point of a sword!"  
In spite of the gravity of the situation, her master had to laugh at this childish devotion. He gestured to her, and she came to him, laying her forehead against his knee.  
"You will always have a place at my side should you wish it. This will never change."  
"And what if I wish to take that place you have offered, my Master. Not as a slave, though."  
"What do you mean?"  
"What if I stayed beside you...as your wife..." she trailed off, shocked that she had spoken these words aloud.

Silence. Stunned, breathless silence. Her words fell like a thunderbolt between them, and he raised her face with his hand. The glittering black eyes looked deeply into hers, and she looked back with fevered adoration.

"Speak your hopes, Rana." he said very quietly.

"If you would accept me, then I would come to you. I could never love another man as much as I love you."

His expression did not change, but beyond that cold countenance his heart seemed suddenly full of light. Rana, sweet little gentle Rana with the smouldering gaze and the light touch. Rana, more dear to him than his own blood, kneeling here at his feet and proclaiming her love. She would marry him, he could have her completely for the rest of his life. His wife would accept it, as she accepted everything he had ever wanted. Without question, and indeed with great love, for she was extremely fond of Rana and did indeed suspect that the girl might one day become a sister wife. It could be now. He could call for Mullah Khaled, and Rana would be his for all time.

For a moment, he allowed the dream to shine before his eyes. Rana, pregnant with their child, sitting in the green grass outside his beloved home back in Damascus, her eyes alight with merriment. Rana beside him every other night, her small brown body curled up against him and the sweetness of her breath against his neck. Rana, running through the fields with her hair escaping its covering, her face shining with love and joy as she threw herself into his arms after a long journey.

Rana, weeping beside his grave. Still young, still new, still strong...a widow. Unable to love another, broken forever, her unlined face a mask of grief that could not be wiped away. Her sorrow would grow as she cared for the aging Jamila, losing her perhaps a few years later. His sons would be honor-bound to care for her, but Rana's life would be a nightmare nonetheless as she lived out the rest of her days full of agony and lonliness.

He shuddered, and the dream died.

Nasir was young and strong. He would be around for many years, and he respected Rana's wild nature and streak of willfulness. His love for her was a tender and beautiful thing. She would know no suffering, no pain, and they would have far more than petty few years together. She would be safe and happy, and when the time for Salahuddin's death finally arrived she would be sheltered from the worst of the grief by the protective embrace and powerful love of her husband.

The two paths opened there before Salahuddin's eyes, and he considered them both in the same logical, careful way that he studied war plans and city models and chess games. Was his selfish love for Rana, in whom all beautiful things seemed to come together, greater than his desire to see her happy and complete?  
It was not. He loved her with an intensity that nearly rivaled her own, though she had never known it. And in the end, this love is what kept him from taking her as his wife.

"I will not marry you." he said, and it took all of his considerable self discipline to keep the pain from his voice. Tears sprang into Rana's eyes, and she clutched at his hand.  
"But I love you." she whispered.

"I am sorry, child. I do not love you. I will never love you. And I give you your freedom, for I cannot have a slave who does not understand her place. You will marry Nasir as soon as possible."

The words broke her heart completely, the pain worse than anything she had ever felt or ever would feel. Rana could not see, could not hear, her soul smashed to a thousand pieces at the death-knell of those horrible, awful, unbelievable words. It was a sentence of complete annihilation.

He felt her pain, for it was the same in his own heart. But he had lived long and suffered much and the hurt did not reach his eyes. She crawled away from him, weeping as though she were about to die, unable to stand for the greatness of her agony, and he had to grip the arms of his chair tightly to keep from gathering the pitiful child into his arms and admitting to her that he did not mean it. He sat as still as a stone, for if he moved or breathed it would spell his undoing and the tears would come. This was for Rana, for her future, for her soul. And so he bore the pain and did not break.

Rana stumbled from the tent, sobbing so hard she could not breathe, running and falling and running again until she was on the edge of the encampment, and then beyond. Her Master did not follow and did not call to her, and she ran and ran until her legs gave out and she collapsed alone on the white sands. The thoughtless moon shone down above her as she tore at her breast and wailed like a wild beast. Her pain was too big for her body, it encompassed the whole world, every grain of sand a crystalized fragment of misery. Shattered, dying inside, she vomited as one who has been poisoned, and could not stop from crying even as she did so. When the spasm had passed, she rose unsteadily to her feet and began to walk, away from the warm tents and the cold eyes of her beloved Master. Away from the judgment of Khaled and the joy of Salahuddin's touch and the tenderness of Nasir's eyes. Away, and her tiny limping form was swallowed up by the darkness.

Salahuddin could not move, the pounding of her running footfalls sounding very loud in his ears. Why was she running so close by the tent? Why didn't she stop?  
And then he realized that the rhythmic thumping was only his heart expressing the pain that his face could not. He stood up, moving swiftly to the door and looking for her, but she was not there. She had fled into the camp somewhere, perhaps to find solace with Nasir. And that was how it ought to be. How it had to be. Now, with her gone from his presence and nothing to hold him in check, he fell forward with his hand to his broken heart. Tears blurred his eyes. Under the same pale moon, the great Salahuddin gave himself over to the anguish that would now never leave him.


	14. Horror

Horror

Rana kept walking, unaware of where she was going or even that she was moving at all. She could not feel her chest or her stomach or the legs beneath, did not know that she walked in a weaving line away from the safety of the tents and into the unforgiving desert. Tears stained her face, there was blood on the long scratches across her chest she'd torn in her suffering, and dried vomit crusted her clothing. A sorrier sight was never to be found. But Rana was unaware of the pathos of her situation. In her tortured mind she heard, over and over, the voice of her Master telling her he did not love her.

She cried out against the black sky and the pulsing stars and the chill winds that blew the last tatters of her soul away. It felt as though God had told her He did not love her.

_'Ranin' she heard her father's sharp voice in the back of her mind, 'go with this man and serve him.'_

_'I do not want to!' she had sobbed, clinging to her mother. She was tiny and scared and the man was so big. He wore a sword, even in the house, and his face did not look kind. Rana dropped her doll on the floor in her struggle, and her mother apologized over and over for the fuss she was making. But Salahuddin had bent down and picked up the doll and given it back to her..._

She stumbled over a stone, falling forward and hitting her head against the hard ground with a sickening crack. Blood exploded from her temple. She barely felt it, and got to her feet to continue the journey through the night to a destination she neither knew nor cared about.

_'The horse is too wild, little Rana. You must not ride him.'_

_'I am not afraid!'_

_She was eight, and Nasir did not want her to hurt herself on her Master's lordly stallion. Salahuddin came out of the house where he had been playing with his youngest son and saw them arguing. He laughed at her pouting, stubborn expression._

_'If she falls I will pick her up again, Nasir. Let the child try. We cannot keep her from all of life's injuries, or she will never become strong.'_

Rana was shaking. The blow to her temple had done something to her system, something bad. She felt more light-headed than ever now. Her mouth was dry and she could not see. Far beyond her in the dark, a wolf howled.

'_Please tell me why you did this.'_

_'Yasan is stupid and cruel and he was being mean to Aisha!'_

_Nine years old, and she'd just shouted at a superior in public. A man, no less. Her Master was furious and disappointed, but he did not raise his voice._

_'You understand that you must be punished?'_

_'It is worth it! I told that awful man what a dog he is, and everyone heard me!'_

_Salahuddin looked terribly sad, and he turned to the handsome young Mullah that stood nearby with his arms folded._

_'Fifteen lashes, and not a single one more. And see that you do not break the skin this time.'_

_'You should punish your own slave, Sultan.'_

_'I know, Khaled,' her Master had said as he turned away, 'but I cannot bear to do it. Bring her to me when you have finished so that I may comfort her.'_

_Then he left the tent and the Mullah stoically ordered her to strip to the waist and lay across the bed, and there was great pain, but Khaled did not enjoy hurting her and it was over quickly. He did not break the skin. Later, her tearful face buried in Salahuddin's chest, his soft voice soothed her._

_'Habibiti, I agree with you. Yasan is indeed a dog. You are very brave...'_

Rana turned her bloody, tear-streaked face to the sound of the wolf, wanting nothing more than to feel those teeth in her throat and die like the sheep she'd found so long ago. Death would be better than this, than living without the love of her beloved. Easier to live without food and water.

_'I am old enough, my Master. Your wife has showed me what to do and my hands are very strong. Won't you allow me to ease your pain?'_

_'It is not right for you to see a man's body unclothed yet, little one.'_

_Near Lebanon. She was thirteen, and he had injured his shoulder in single combat with Baron Godfrey of Ibelin. Rana hoped the infidel died in pain after an unhappy life for hurting her Master. She reached for the lantern by the bed._

_'Then I will blow out the light, my lord, and I will not see you. Please let me help.'_

_He laughed at that, finding her amusing and headstrong and precious in her innocence. His shoulder was on fire, a massage would probably help relieve the tension, and so finally he acquiesced and removed his shirt. Rana stared in spire of herself, never having seen a man's naked torso before. Scars crisscrossed the skin, old wounds beneath newer ones, but nothing could hide the graceful beauty of his body. When he lay down with a sigh and she touched him, her hands slippery with oil, she knew in an instant that she would do absolutely anything to bring this man comfort and solace. In this life and the next._

Hours passed, and in a vertiginous stupor the wounded girl continued to walk foolishly forward. Far, far behind her in the camp her absence had not been noted. She'd slipped through the sentries without realizing it, a single girl clad in dark colors, running. Nasir believed her to be with her master, quite possibly in his arms, and he sat alone in his tent and tried to cool the anger that warred with complete loyalty to his lifelong friend and teacher. Salahuddin, wracked with misery and guilt, thought her to be in the safety of Nasir's chambers. Neither man suspected for a moment that Rana was limping through the empty desert five miles from camp with a bleeding head wound. If they had, no force in the world could have kept them from coming to her aide. Even Mullah Khaled would have leaped atop his horse and rode hard to fetch her back.

But she walked alone, unnoticed and growing weaker, and when dawn began to break she had covered even more ground and her footprints had been effaced by the swirling sands.

_'I am sorry, child. I do not love you. I will never love you...'_

The sun was rising, but she could not hear the call to prayer. Back there, beyond the gently rolling dunes and the rocky outcroppings, they were gathering together. Zainab noticed Rana's absence from the dawn prayer, and felt somehow that something was wrong. She had not heard the girl run from her tent, the singing and drumming of the soldiers drowning out all but the loudest sounds. But later, after the moon had set and she awoke from some sweet dream of her future husband, she became aware of the soft sound of a man weeping. Zainab did not intrude upon the grief of the Sultan, knowing her place far better than Rana ever did. But she knew it was he. And now, there was no Rana at the dawn prayer. No Rana to be found racing across the oasis to catch up, late but determined to be there.

"Have any of you seen Rana the Bedouin?" she asked tentatively. Most of the women shook their heads, looking at one another and Zainab in bewilderment. But Mahana nodded.

"Little Rana, Salahuddin's slave? I saw her running out into the desert last night. By herself. But," and here Mahana lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer to Zainab, "She may have been going to meet with someone."

"What do you mean?"

Mahana smiled, delighted with her knowledge.

"Little Rana has a secret, I think. But of course I didn't tell you anything..."

There was no time. Maryam clapped her hands for silence, and the girls took their places side by side to pray.

Oh God...into the desert. What if she had not returned?

Zainab could do nothing until after the prayer, but her chest filled with dark worry.

"Allahu Akbar."

She ran to find him the moment the prayer was complete. It was an enormous breach of decorum.

But at times, perhaps the slave Rana was correct. Perhaps the law of what was right and fitting and proper for a woman needed to be bent. Or even broken.

Zainab did not meet the eyes of the guards surrounding the Sultan's tent. They spoke sharply to her, and one of them moved to stand in her way.

"State your business, woman!" he snapped. Zainab bowed.

"I must speak with Salahuddin."

"His Lordship has no time to entertain females, this is a field of battle. Know your place and return to it!" The guard lifted his spear threateningly, his heavily scarred face wearing a look of deepest distaste. Zainab fearlessly raised her eyes to meet his. Where in all hell was a shovel when she needed one...

"It is a matter of some urgency."

"This is not my concern. Send a messenger. A male one, naturally, and we will see what can be done."

For only the second time in all of Zainab's life, her implacable calm broke down. Upon seeing that this thick-headed bodyguard would no more let her through than one he suspected of being a Christian spy, she took a deep breath and moved as if to go away in defeat. At the last second, she darted to the right and made a dash for the entrance. Two of them caught her, of course, and lifted her bodily from the ground. Suddenly there were five more, all surrounding her, all shouting at her in anger.

Zainab bit and struggled, the panic rising in her chest, and at once raised her own voice.

"My king! My king! I must see you!"

"Shut up, girl! He must not be disturbed! He is not well!"

"MY LORD! SALAHUDDIN! RANA WENT INTO THE DESERT!"

The moment the last sentence was out, hanging clear in the air, a strange change came over the guards. They fell silent, uncertain, glancing at one another. And the tent flap twitched.

"Release her. Come to me, Zainab."

The voice was gentle, exhausted, and frighteningly fragile-sounding. But his eyes, despite their redness, were as hard and piercing as ever. The Sultan reached out and took her hand, pulling her into the tent without a glance at the expressions on the faces of his guards.

The soldiers could do nothing now. She was safe. But when she looked at the Sultan, she knew instantly that Rana was not.

Salahuddin wore no armor, and it was the first time she had seen him without it. Indeed, this was the closest she had ever been to him. He was softened and seemed somewhat diminished in his grief. Nasir stood a little way behind him, tears glistening in his eyes.

They had found that Rana was not among them. A runner had been sent for Zainab, but he'd passed her without knowing it.

Zainab lowered her head respectfully, uncertain of what to say to this man whom she had been taught to love and fear and view as a savior for the last fifteen years.

"What is this about the desert? Is Rana hiding there?"

"When did you see her last?"

Both men were talking at once, and Zainab shook her head quickly.

"My king, General Nasir, I have not seen her. But Mahana the dancer witnessed her running out into the desert last night. She implied that Rana was slipping away for a secret tryst." Zainab looked up into Salahuddin's eyes. "Instead of fleeing from one."

"Damn it! Why run into danger to escape heartache?! There is no solace there. Only death! _Rana's_ death!" Nasir slammed his fist on a table. He sat down and put his head in his hands. Salahuddin whirled around and called for his guard.

"Send for the dancer. Have her brought here immediately. And ready my horse."

"To hear is to obey, my king."

"Two horses. I will ride with you, my friend." Nasir added. Salahuddin nodded, then sank into a chair across from the general, his eyes staring unseeing into the shadows on the far side of the tent. Zainab looked from one to the other, feeling completely out of her depth here among these leaders of her world. She slowly sat down on a low stool near Nasir, finding herself more comfortable with him than the fierce and decidedly lethal-looking Sultan. But the shared devotion for Rana was apparent. Both of the men looked as though they had just discovered that their only child was dead.

"Sultan, I wish to accompany you. Rana may not answer your voice - "

"In eight years she has not failed even once to respond to my call."

"But how many times over those years has she been your lover instead of your servant?"

"Watch your tongue!" Nasir snapped, and rose swiftly to his feet, glaring at her for her impudence. But Salahuddin merely sighed and nodded, looking heartbreakingly sad.

"Continue." he said. Nasir folded his arms , shooting Zainab a warning look.

After a pause, in which she carefully averted her eyes from Nasir, Zainab went on.

"Your majesty, Rana has a great deal of pain to endure right now. Her devotion to you in complete. Her love for General Nasir is growing more every day. If you fought last night..."

"We have never fought. I spoke roughly to her, and she fled. It was a grave error, one that I regret more than I can describe."

"I completely understand, my lord. But perhaps if Rana is hiding she would come to me even if she was still afraid of your anger. I am her friend, and a girl."

The tent flap opened abruptly, and a breathless Mahana was escorted in. She looked terrified to have received a summons from the Sultan, for she had never been called by anyone so great before. She stood nervously in the glare from the rising sun, looking wildly into the darkness of the room.

"Come in at once." Salahuddin beckoned to her, though she could barely see him. She moved a few feet into the tent and dropped into a deep bow, unable to even raise her eyes. She was shaking like a blade of grass in the wind.

"What does the Sultan wish from a woman such as myself?" she asked meekly. Zainab felt a chill course up her back. The manner in which those besides Rana behaved when they were near Salahuddin was extremely telling. He was indeed an object both of veneration and fear.

"You witnessed my slave, Rana, running into the desert. Tell me what direction she chose."

Mahana burst into tears, covering her face with both hands and shaking her head.

"I...I do not want...to g-get her into trouble!" the poor woman sobbed.

Salahuddin was extremely worried for Rana, and every minute that he was not going after her was another one in which she might be captured or killed. He was fast losing patience, but still he spoke gently to the crying dancer.

"I ask you once more; where did she go? Rana is in no trouble from me. I care for her, and she is in danger."

Mahana raised her tear-streaked face to look into the gloom, her eyes adjusting to the darkness slightly, and she spotted Zainab and Nasir. She looked terribly confused, and Zainab's heart moved her to go to the older woman's side and help her sit up.

"Rana is not herself, Mahana. She ran away last night and we only wish to find her before something terrible happens. You know the dangers the desert contains." Zainab said softly, soothingly. Mahana gulped some air and hid her face again, terrified.

"She...she ran behind the tent. Behind and into the east, directly toward the rising moon."

The two men were on their feet in a heartbeat. Without even pausing to thank the dancer or offer permission to Zainab they swept from the tent, looking grim. Zainab, worried for Rana, absolutely refused to be left behind. She ran after them.

"General Nasir, sir!"

He slid into the saddle and looked down at her.

"Your husband will be furious with us." he sighed, but he held his hand out to her nonetheless, and she took it, swinging up in front of him. Then, in a thunder of hooves, he turned his horse and followed Salahuddin's fast-moving stallion into the blazing eastern sands.

Rana could not remember why she was walking, and so she stopped for a moment. Something sticky was dried to the side of her face and the cloth that covered her head. She did not know what it was, its salty taste slightly familiar and at the same time unidentifiable.

Her fresh head wound continued to bleed fitfully. Beneath the cool ivory curve of her skull, a portion of her brain had begun to swell. The increasing pressure caused her to suddenly recall the taste of fruited ice and the sound of her mother's singing, then just as swiftly forget.

Her heart hurt, something was making her want to cry, but she could not remember what it was. She pulled off her hijab, sweating, despite some small part of her that told her to keep it on. And a moment later, she pulled off the rough outer robe and dropped it on the hot sand, stumbling forward in her sleeveless shift and one sandal, having lost the other one somewhere far behind. High above her on the swift breezes of morning came the dark shapes of the vultures. Angels of the desert, sensing impending death, they followed the war camps and feasted well after each battle. Rana looked up as their shadows passed above her, and laughed to see how lovely they were.

"Birds!" she cried, tears and blood dried to her face, "Pretty birds! Assalamu alaikum, birds!"

They did not reply.

Not long now...


	15. Unexpected Salvation

Author's Notes - In response to a _very_ strange musical request, I have been listening to 'Africa' by Toto whilst typing this chapter. So if this installment seems at all odd...blame Hannah M. I can give you her address. She's a little Persian with a sassy attitude and a cat named Jack Sparrow because she has a raging crush on Johnny Depp. She once said that she would dearly love to own a lock of his chest hair. There. Now we're even. Freaking Toto...

Unrepentant Ruffian, you have got to send me an e-mail one of these days and tell me how things worked out with the old Arabic fellow up the street, you insane stalker you.

Jedi Knight Padme, Folk, Mitsi, SilverLight, and Bubblegum, thank you so much for sticking with me. I absolutely adore you all and I will read everything you write forever. Even if it's just a doodle scrawled on a napkin, I'm there. - Noble Rot

* * *

Unexpected Salvation  


The two horses tore across the desert, their riders urging them even faster as the sun climbed higher and higher above them. A terrible heat was rising.

Deserts are not like other places. The vast, featureless dunes are lovely in the purple haze of evening, and when gilded with the soft pink kiss of the sunrise they seem bright with the promise of adventure. But it is as deceptive as the lovely face of a djinni, concealing a great hatred of all things human beneath a carelessly beautiful facade. Once the sun rose fully the satiny sands became a hellish oven, a lake of fire that continued in every direction. Zainab had lived a fairly sheltered life on the edge of an abundant oasis within three miles of the sea. She knew the desert only as the place where her ancestors lived. But to Salahuddin and Nasir, men who grew up in the scorching blast furnace and knew its treacherous nature, the desert's deceptive personality was both friend and foe. Friend, when they fought upon it against armies that did not know the terrain or the proper methods to use. Foe, when it hindered their movement or swallowed up someone they loved...as it had now.

Nasir pulled his horse up next to that of his master, close enough so that they could speak.

"My lord, what will happen when we find her?" He did not say 'if'. He could not even _think_ 'if'. Salahuddin glanced over at him, his eyes flickering slightly as he noticed that Zainab was with them as well. But he seemed too distracted to take issue with this.

"We will do whatever it is that she wishes, without allowing our own desires to enter into it. I am afraid for her, my friend. If she lives, I swear to God that I will never harm her or allow harm to come to her again."

Nasir nodded, his eyes incredibly sad and full of worry.

"What exactly did you say to her?"

"I told her that I did not love her. It was calculated to drive her into your arms."

"A noble thing you did, my teacher. I understand what pain it must have cost you. I am sorry it did not work."

"Truly, my friend, it was a grave error. I should have explained to her my position gently and sent her to you with love. I am a fool."

"If any other man called you such he would taste steel before another breath had been drawn, master."

"Your loyalty is greatly valued. As was Rana's. Find her, and I will do all that I can to fix this mess."

"My lord, do you love her?"

"Deeply. And you?"

"Without question or reservation, master. But my devotion is to you above all else, and I would protect and love Rana with respect as your wife or with passion as mine, and there would be no bitterness either way."

"Imad, Nasir, my greatest student and closest friend, you will never know what comfort you have brought me. Now on, and let us pray that we find her before death does."

Salahuddin pulled his horse ahead, scanning the empty horizon in a torment of hope. But the small, struggling girl was nowhere to be seen. They were alone in a blazing white world and she was far, far ahead and to the right of their position, having veered away from true east during the night.

Zainab pulled her hijab tighter about her face, keeping her silence and trying not to lean against Nasir more than was absolutely necessary. She had been quite touched by the two men's conversation. The worry that had been growing since she first noticed Rana's absence was now almost morphing into panic. She suppressed a dry sob and covered her mouth with her hand. Nasir patted her shoulder reassuringly.

"We will find her, we will most certainly find her." he said, and she could feel his voice rumbling in his chest against her back and it was not unpleasant. She suddenly felt very close to him, like a sister. She felt a soft love for both of these men and for Rana and for her dear betrothed husband. The isolation and pain that she had been fighting with since the vile barbarities of her cousin Omar began to ease, and she leaned back against Nasir with complete trust. He slipped an arm around her waist and held her to comfort them both.

Salahuddin suddenly pulled his horse up quickly, causing it to rear, and a moment later he had leaped from its back with practiced skill and landed beside a small item on the ground.

"What is it?' asked Nasir, riding up beside him. Without a word, his master handed him a soiled, broken sandal.

* * *

The birds kept following her, and she began to give them names in a delighted sort of haze. This one, now, with the missing feathers from his chest and the lordly wing span, he was Aahil. And the fat little one with the rumpled back was Issar. Those two who kept landing and following her on foot, then taking off again were Parsa and Sabir, respectively. Rana talked to them, but it was getting hard to speak. Her mouth was dry, and her words oddly slurred. It was very difficult to think. 

"Come Sabir, come Parsa. Need to carry me now. Tired..." she whispered, and like a miracle they came closer and bowed their naked pink heads and hissed comfortingly. Rana smiled. Such kind, beautiful birds. A stabbing pain in her head made her fall to her knees suddenly, and when she tried to rise she found that the light was somehow gray and her legs would not work. She rolled on to her side to wait until she felt better, but the sand was terribly hot and her arms and face and legs were burning. Sabir moved closer still, while Parsa held back and kept the strange shadows that moved at the edge of her vision at bay.

"Good...beautiful..." Rana murmured. Sabir dipped his beak, nipping affectionately at her bare side, and she petted his back. He retreated with another tender hiss, and this time she heard words.

_'Courage, little Muslima.'_

Rana sighed and closed her eyes against the brightness of the light and the insistent picking of her feathered guardians. It was time for sleep.

She seemed to feel a gentle breeze touch her face, and a man's voice called to her somewhere off in the recesses of her tortured mind. Smiling, she turned to find him, a small brown hand reaching out to touch his face, which kept changing.

But, but...something wasn't right.

The face was too real, the stubble of a shaved beard under her fingers completely unlike the softness of her dream-lover's face. Rana's eyes opened slightly.

The birds were gone, soaring overhead in irritation.

She was touching a stranger, a man in brown robes who leaned over her with worry creasing his eyes.

_'Bedouin?'_ her mind suggested, but the word had no meaning anymore and so she could not postulate. Rana patted his face again, reassuring him. The pain in those eyes was very sad to behold. Was it for her?

* * *

Andris, vassal of Lord Rand de Aubrin, had all morning been scouting the distant perimeters of the temporary encampment his lord had been forced to build after the loss of his city. They knew well that the considerable might of the enemy lay a mere twenty miles to the northwest, but it was a condition of the treaty between King Baldwin and Saladin that the Saracens never attacked the remnants of a keep once its military might was broken. This fact in no way led to a completely relaxed attitude toward the nearby encampment, however. The Lord and his remaining people kept a close eye on the horizon at all times, much as a cottage-dweller might carefully observe a budding bees' nest in a neighboring orchard. 

Andris saw from afar that the vultures were following something, and his natural curiosity coupled with a definite boredom from the morning's inaction moved him to investigate. It was with great surprise and pity that he beheld a young Muslim girl, stripped almost naked and bleeding profusely, covered in bruises and limping all alone through the desert. Even as he watched, she had fallen in a heap on the searing sands and did not rise again. He whipped his horse into a run and dismounted a few yards away from her sad little figure. The horrid birds had landed and one was even beginning to peck at her belly to disembowel her, but they flew up in a rage when Andris came running at them, waving his arms.

"Go away! Get away from her, you filthy God -forsaken things!"

Sabir and Parsa and Aahil and Issar stretched their wings and cawed throaty insults at the meddling man and his white horse, but they did not dare attack the strong. Abandoning the girl to this new predator, the foursome turned west, to where they knew of another promising little party alone in the desert.

Andris leaned down and touched the girl's sunburned arm, and her eyelids briefly flickered.

"Master..." she whispered, and touched his face. His heart gave a stab of pain and rage. A slave! A poor little Muslim slave kept and obviously abused by the Saracen savages! She must have escaped somehow, Christ be with her. Andris felt like smashing something. He had heard the Arabs kept many slaves, but he had never seen with his own eyes the terrible treatment these lost souls received. He pulled off his traveling cloak and tenderly wrapped her bruised body in its folds, shielding her from the sun with brotherly affection. She looked to be about the age of his lord's daughter, or perhaps a few years younger.

Andris mounted his horse, pulling the girl into his arms and holding her tightly against his chest. Then he turned the gelding and began to ride carefully back to the refugee village.

"My King...my God...please..." the girl was murmuring, her face lined with anguish. Andris clenched his fist and rode faster.

"You're safe now, my dear. Safe in the hands of the God-fearing." he told her firmly.

"My Master..." Had she any tears left, it was plain that she would have been weeping.

"No more masters, child. You will never be owned again."

"My Master Salahuddin...I beg you..." she whispered brokenly, and lapsed into silence. Stunned, Andris nearly fell from his horse. He looked wildly behind them and around on all sides, his breath suddenly gone. Could it be possible? Could this in fact be the personal slave of their greatest enemy?

Andris shook her, very lightly, and she moaned.

"Is Saladin your master?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. They were now moving so fast that he could not even feel the rhythm of the horse's feet.

"Master...Sayyidi..."

"Yes, child. Is Saladin the one you belonged to? Was it he directly, or one of his men?"

The child whimpered, and suddenly she gave a cry and pulled her hand free, touching a gaping wound on the side of her head that Andris had not noticed due to its filthiness. He tried to soothe her gently while at the same time controlling the horse. Hesitantly, not trusting his accent, he spoke to her in Arabic. Just a few words, what he knew. The result was instantaneous. She sighed and quieted, going limp in his arms. After she'd calmed a bit, he tried again.

"Is the one who you call master Saladin?"

"Beloved king...please, I beg you...I b-beg you...no..."

Rana's mind was incoherent, her thoughts a desperate jumble that she was unable to speak. But her heart knew itself, even beneath the crushing weight of pain and exposure and massive injury.

_'Do not send me from your side, Salahuddin. I would die for you. I would die for you and never count my meager life a waste. You are the beginning and the end of my heart, the place where all my affections and my loyalties lie. Only in your arms, my king...only there will I find the comfort that I seek...'_

She wept, but no tears came, for she had shed them all during the night.

Andris felt physically ill. His suspicion was correct. Not only was this poor, sad, damaged little thing the slave of the black-hearted Sultan, she was also the victim of terrible abuse at no less than his own hands.

"Monsters! Vile cruel Saracens! May the judgment of God Almighty strike them from the face of the earth!" Andris growled, and pushed the horse even faster.

Far, far behind them a small dust cloud marred the horizon. Two horses, running, guided by two desperate and worried men. For a moment Zainab thought she saw a movement far away in the hills, but a moment later she realized it was only a flock of vultures, high up and flying gracefully across the dome of the sky...


	16. Rising Danger

Rising Danger

They came upon Rana's clothing, the vomit-spattered abaya and the bloody hijab, and Nasir gave a hoarse yell of frustration and rage, kneeling by the place to look desperately for tracks. Zainab stood a little way off, shielding her eyes and scanning the horizon. The Sultan held Rana's discarded things in his hands and turned his face to the sky, the whole of his heart open to Allah as it had always been.

"Why the clothing? Was she taken do you think?" Zainab asked softly, coming up behind him.

"There are no tracks! None at all!" Nasir snarled in frustration, and he too came to stand behind his silent master.

Salahuddin rose to his feet and remounted.

"She removed them herself. They are not torn or damaged as they would have been if someone else had stripped her. Rana may be delirious. We must hurry."

"My lord, there is a problem to consider."

"Which is?"

"The armies move on Kerak in the morning. We must be with them."

"I am aware. If it is necessary, I will charge a small battalion of the men with finding Rana. We will not neglect our duties to the Muslim world for one woman...no matter who she may be."

Both Nasir and Zainab heard the agony in his voice, and a moment later when he rode away they followed in silence for a few minutes. Then Zainab turned her head slightly to speak to the warrior behind her.

"He would not really leave her?" she whispered urgently.

"What is the alternative?! Zainab, he is the Sultan. He is not free to do as other men."

"But Rana could die!"

"Don't you think he _knows_ that? Don't you think I do?" his voice broke.

She had no reply to that. They rode for some time in silence, and the sun rose higher. All day, all day they searched and found nothing and did not give up. The desert was burning all around them, the vultures were gleefully following and calling to one another.

The fire of morning gave way to the hateful heat of afternoon, and later the shades of night crept forth and stole the light by degrees.

Still they searched. To the edges of the neighboring enemy encampment, as close as they dared, until one of the scouts found them.

"Be off with you, heathens! This is now Lord Rand's land! The treaty says - "

"I am well aware of what the treaty says." Salahuddin broke in softly, and the guard glared at him.

"Then you know you'll have to turn back here, old man!"

Nasir had to clench both fists and bite his tongue to keep from attacking the little idiot for his ignorance and disrespect. But giving away the identity of his master when the three of them traveled alone would be an incredibly foolish thing to do. Zainab touched his hand beneath a fold of her robe, wrapping her fingers over his wrist and letting him know silently that she felt the same.

Salahuddin took the insult with his usual restraint and patience. He inclined his head slightly and continued speaking.

"We are searching for a young girl. She became separated from us last night and may have passed in this direction. Have you seen her? She may be hurt."

"No, I haven't seen anyone! And if you don't turn your horses around I can tell you that three more people will be hurt as well!"

At this, Nasir loosened his blade a fraction of an inch from its sheath, making ready to use it if necessary. Salahuddin dropped his own hand to the gleaming steel dagger in a sheath on his waist.

The young man on the horse seemed to sense that he had gone too far, and he pulled back slightly. Two fully-grown, obviously battle-hardened Arabic men against one bored, hot, over-exhausted young guard were not odds that he favored or wished to test. Even the girl appeared menacing, gazing haughtily down at him with fathomless dark eyes, her guardians lightly fingering their weapons and looking him over. Damn unnatural Arabs. They weren't even visibly sweating.

"Ah...no, gentlemen. I have not seen a little girl or anyone else today. But if we should come upon her we will send a rider to find you. Where is your caravan heading?"

"Send the rider to the valley between those hills, if you have any information. There will be a small party camped there to continue the search."

"Certainly, certainly. Now, gentlemen, if you could please...?" the knight gestured back towards the horizon from whence they came.

* * *

Mullah Khaled was _far_ beyond angry. He was _livid_. He was _seething_. But he did not dare turn his anger to the Sultan, and said not a word to him as they rode into camp and dismounted. Nor did he wish to reprimand his wife in front of so many onlookers, lest he should earn the reputation of a man whose woman did not respect him. But he held her with his gaze for a few moments, letting her know that there would be words the moment they were alone. Zainab bowed to him and slipped away to await his attention in her tent. 

And so Khaled turned to glare at Nasir,who squared his shoulders and prepared for the verbal battle he'd predicted.

"You thoughtless, foolish, unbelievably thickheaded son of a camp-whore!" the mullah hissed. Nasir sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. His head was killing him after spending nine hours in the awful heat and light of the desert, and his worry for Rana was too great a load to bear.

"Khaled, may we do this later? As much as I would love to listen to your speculation on my parentage, I have absolutely no energy. And we will leave my mother out of this."

"You two kidnapped my wife and ran off into the wild! The day before a _siege_, for Allah's sake! _WHAT WERE YOU THINKING_?!"

"Do not make it sound as though we did it for pleasure! Rana is missing!"

"She is probably out climbing rocks or getting lost in caves or some such nonsense! If her master had a greater hold on her this sort of thing would not happen!"

"Damn it, will you listen? Rana ran away last night after our master spoke roughly to her. She's gone into the desert, Khaled, the _desert_! Or do you pampered students not know of the dangers that vast wasteland holds? Too busy in your mosques, studying your books and thinking yourselves powerful while the _men_ have to do all the difficult work?!"

"Your audacity has nearly been your undoing before, Nasir! Do _not_ give me a reason to have you thrown into prison!"

"Then do not give _me_ a reason to turn on you with a weapon in hand, you arrogant, self-righteous, sanctimonious piece of – "

"ENOUGH."

Salahuddin's voice, usually a soft purr even when he was very angry, had suddenly risen in harsh reprimand. The two men stopped bickering, their blood boiling, and Nasir turned on his heel and stalked away. Khaled watched him go with slitted eyes.

"Is it true? Has she gone?" he asked, turning back to the Sultan.

"Yes, I am sorry to say. But we will still leave in the morning. I wonder if you would be so kind as to remember that I have never failed our people before?"

"You have yet to deliver your promise."

"You remind me constantly of this. But there were precious few victories before I came. The past years have brought you a great deal more than ever you had."

"Thus far."

"And would you seek to dethrone the only one who has given you success? Or perhaps not dethrone, but certainly destabilize my rule by threatening Nasir with prison? I cannot allow this. You _will_ be civil to one another."

"You heard what he said!"

"I do not deny it was rash. But his future wife is missing and possibly dead. I think we may grant him some leniency."

Khaled did not look at all pleased, but he bit his lip and tried to calm the fire in his black eyes. The sun was setting, and despite the mullah's anger he felt a twinge of worry in his chest. Khaled was many things, but he was far from heartless. And he truly cared for Rana despite the annoyance she caused him to feel.

"How can I help to find her?" he finally asked, quietly. The Sultan looked out again past the edge of the camp, his face deeply troubled.

"In the way that you have always helped the most, Mullah Khaled. Pray for her, for all of us..."

* * *

Andris held her tightly the whole ride back, terrified for her very life each time she slipped into unconsciousness. The sun and the sand and the terrible heat could rob a traveler of their very lives within the span of a few hours if they were not properly attired and provisioned for the trip, and there was no telling how long the little slave had been wandering about in her dangerous state of undress. He fumbled a water skin from his belt as they rode and poured a measure into the child's mouth. She coughed, and the haunted brown eyes opened again. 

Andris stared. He had never seen such eyes. They were not a deep black like most Arab eyes he had seen, rather this girl's were an unusual shade of amber, the soft wash of cinnamon near the center fanning out to a mahogany that held shades of orange. His protectiveness of her increased as he looked at her, beholding her fragile beauty and pitiful state.

"Sayyidi?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what that means, little girl."

She whimpered, looking around as much as her bundled state would allow, an expression of terror on her face.

Many years ago, Andris had chanced upon an injured cat in an alley behind a butcher shop. The poor thing had its leg caught in between a pair of thick barrels and was utterly unable to twist out, and as a result had dislocated its hip in the ensuing frenzy of attempted escape. It took Andris a full hour of gentle coaxing to get close enough to wrap the creature in his shirt and free its leg, and in the days and weeks that followed the cat had given him just this look every time he'd approached it. Solomon, as he was called now, only calmed down enough to be handled and eventually played with after a full year of gentle treatment. Perhaps this little runaway required the same approach.

Andris hummed for a moment to get the tune, then softly began to sing to her a ribald German fisherman's song about lusty wenches and salty winds and willing mermaids. He had no idea what the words meant, not knowing German, but he loved the tune and had known it all his life. His father had often brought back stories and songs from faraway lands back when he was alive, and the adolescent Andris had eagerly learned them all phonetically. He shared his favorite song now to calm the scared little Arab in his arms.

He was just reaching the part about the island girl with three titties when they arrived at the ramshackle keep, passing through the gates and into safety just as the sun began its slow descent toward the other side of the world. Andris stopped singing and gingerly slid from his horse's back, still holding Rana tightly in his arms.

"Not long now, little one. We'll get you some food and some ointment for those burns and some clean clothes..."

"What've you got there, Andris? Find something interesting for a change?"

A tall, grinning Frenchman came jogging up to Andris and took his horse's reins.

Andris smiled back. Theophile never actually walked anywhere, preferring instead to trot like one of the restless horses he so loved. Gently, he set Rana down on her unsteady feet and pulled the cloak away from her face so that Theo could get a look at her.

"I found this girl in the desert, wandering around and injured. Just look at that head wound! She's been beaten pretty well, that's for certain."

Theo bent down and ruffled her hair so that he could look at the wound. He squinted at it and stroked his chin.

"It does not look like a deliberate blow. This needs cleaning. Bring her inside and we'll do what we can."

Theophile Gauthierre was a medic, a veterinarian, a scholar and a gentleman. He traveled a long way from his native home for the express purpose of aiding the war effort. It was said that salvation could be found in the Holy Land, that the face of God hovered behind every cloud and the barren sorrows of Golgotha absorbed the tears of the spiritually injured and gave forth solace.

The reality was far different from the beautiful tales.

Theo found frustration and pain and bigotry, cruel knights and noble enemies and their opposites, fathomless passion for an ideal that he had trouble believing in anymore. But the injuries were real. The blood was real. The wounded horses and wounded soldiers and wounded hearts were real.

And so he stayed. Stayed and helped and worshiped God in the only way he knew...with his hands.

He ducked to get into the low hut he'd been using as his medical quarters, surveying the rows of injured soldiers. No women at all, not even one. Sighing, he backed out into the blazing sunlight again.

"Never mind, Andris. We'll need another place to put her."

"Your tent?"

"Absolutely not! A young girl has no business in my tent!"

"As I've always thought, Theo." Even under the circumstances, Andris could not help but pick on his friend. Theo shot him an irritated look and scanned the cluster of tents and outbuildings surrounding them.

After the sacking of Aubrin, the survivors had been fortunate enough to relocate to an old farm, and the stone outbuildings were well-crafted and kept out the light and heat very well. All of the higher-ups were given converted cottages and the like to temporarily call home, while the less fortunate had to make do with the same rough tents that the enemy used. Only the daughter of the lord insisted on living in a tent when she was entitled to far more. She felt that it set an important example to the people about the need to endure the hardship that God sent as gracefully as possible. Her tent was assembled near the oasis, situated toward the east from which the cool night winds blew. It was to this place that Theo and Andris eventually brought their young runaway, and Sabiha the daughter of Rand came to the doorway and ushered them in without question the moment she saw what lay in Andris' arms.

"Here, put her on my bed. What happened?" she asked. Andris looked away, blushing as he always did when addressed by the girl he secretly loved more than his own life.

"I found her while I was scouting. She...Theo, please close the tent and come over here...she says that she is a slave." Andris whispered, pulling his cloak away from Rana's bloody face. Rana stirred, and Sabiha felt deep pity for the poor girl. She helped them to lay the slave on the narrow bed and pulled a chair up next to her. Theo jogged out to fetch water and medical supplies, and Andris sank into a chair on the other side, watching Sabiha as she gently began to pull the cloak and dirty clothing away from Rana's battered body in preparation for Theo.

Sabiha was soft and gentle, beautiful as a pale sunrise on the first day of Spring. Her hair was long, the color of burnished bronze, and she wore it in a simple plait down her back. The wide gray eyes that looked down with concern at the young girl before her held all the light and kindness and compassion Andris had ever hoped to find in all the world. She was everything, everything to him.

And he could not tell her so. She was the half-blood the daughter of his European lord, her mother a beautiful Arabian who had now passed on, and no vassal could ever hope to win the hand of his lord's only child. Not if that man was poor, and had only his sword and his honor to offer.

"Will she live, my lady?" Andris asked. Sabiha touched the awful wound on Rana's head, trailed her soft white fingers down to the girl's bruised lip and the mark on her neck where she'd been bitten. A shadow crossed her face.

"I am no healer, Andris. But it is a good bet that she has been violated. Please, if you will, lean over and look at this mark. Like teeth. And her shoulder, something here like the end of a scar on her back. Perhaps more abuse, a flogging? Will you roll her toward you? Thank you. Yes, yes...look at this."

Sabiha pointed to a spidery network of scars, the visible marks of Khaled's discipline tattooed on Rana's back. To Sabiha's observant eye the marks appeared to have been cared for, and had healed very well. But the fact that the girl bore them at all angered her. She herself had never been beaten. Not even when she was fifteen and had stolen her father's horse.

Theo came bustling in again, bearing with him the items he would need to heal his newest patient.

"Sorry that took a moment. Elldin's throat wound required cleaning again. The poor man."

Andris quickly released Rana's shoulders and lay her back on the bed, not wanting to seem improper. He moved aside as Theo came to sit by the girl.

"Elldin? That's the fellow who had his throat bitten out by a wild dog during the battle, correct?"

"So he indicated. But I still think it does not look like the bite of a dog. It is a miracle he lived at all. A miracle..."

Theo began to clean the child under the worried gazes of Sabiha and Andris.

Deep inside herself, Rana was unaware of the conversation or even the sensation of warm water on her body. She was dancing, dancing under the stars with the great black wings of a vulture spread out behind her.

Two horses raced past her in the dark, and she ran after...screaming...


	17. Vengeance and Mercy

Author's Note: Thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers! Folk and Padme, you are the linchpins of my creativity. Silver and Bubblegum and Mitsi and Hannah - thanks for sticking with the story no matter where it leads and trusting me. And Unrepentant Ruffian - You are redeemed. Thank you so much for what you said. It really did make me cry. All of you ought to head over the Ruffian's site and check out the poem she wrote for this story. - The Noble Rot

* * *

Vengeance and Mercy

Mullah Khaled stepped into Zainab's tent without calling to her first and pulled the flap behind him with one quick, angry motion. She say placidly on a chair by the bed, watching him with her cool dark eyes.

"You are angry, Mullah. Would you like to sit down?" she asked smoothly, and again Khaled found himself slightly disarmed by her demeanor. He refused the chair she'd indicated and instead moved to stand behind it, towering over her in the gathering darkness. He was literally shaking with rage.

"Zainab." He tried the word, and had to grip the back of the chair very tightly. She slowly rose to her feet, her eyes holding him, and moved closer.

"Khaled."

"I am absolutely furious with you." Khaled could barely speak, so great was his rage at this woman, this disobedient woman whom he thought he could trust implicitly. She reached up and touched his shoulder, and he was like stone.

"Khaled, hold me."

"Haram! We are not – "

"Hold me."

There was no trembling in her voice. The dark eyes were gentle and understanding and held such a wealth of compassion and love that he felt the blood pounding in his ears and he suddenly wanted to either burst into tears or smash something. The rage, the black rage that always lay beneath the surface and exploded at the slightest provocation, was rising. He did not want to hurt her. He hated to hurt anyone, and only did so under duress or great need. But she'd run off, run away from him with damned Nasir and even _more_ damned –

He stopped himself from thinking the rest.

And the rage kept rising in his chest. He reached out and gripped her arm very hard, and she did not move away or drop her eyes. Instead, she laid her free hand against his face.

"Let go of the pain." she repeated, the same gentle voice, the same tender gaze. Khaled felt as though he were falling from a great height, and he wanted blood. Gushing, running blood and someone screaming in pain beneath his hands. He could barely move, and Zainab stood on tiptoe and pressed her warm lips to his cheek.

"Let go..." she whispered against him, and it was the sound of shorebirds to one lost at sea, the sleepy purr of the mother cat when she curls around her kittens, the songs his beloved grandmother sang to him when he screamed in panic against the visions of hellfire he'd been plagued with since the day he turned five. Zainab wrapped her arms around him, and her embrace was the only harbor he'd ever found in the long and torturous storm of his life. The clouds parted for a moment.

He saw the sun.

Khaled felt a dam burst in his chest. He embraced her with fevered intensity. He was drowning in the sorrow, the loneliness, the self-damnation and spiritual terror and rage - oh _GOD_ the rage! Zainab did not yield to his suddenly forceful push, she was the wall of rock that dammed the tempestuous waters of his soul and he was glad of her strength. He put his arms around her and laid his hot, heavy head on her shoulder and trembled while she soothed the sweat away from his brow with her cool touch and softly whispered to him words of love and devotion. They sank onto the bed together, the tormented mullah and the strong, quiet Muslima. And she held him while he clutched at her and buried his face in her chest and did not speak.

They lay together like that for almost an hour, and gradually the tide of his anger receded and left him feeling exhausted. He sat up, looking down at Zainab as she lay quietly beside him, her face as composed and beautiful as any Houri he had ever dreamed of in his most shameful fantasies.

"In the holy name of Allah the Merciful and Benevolent, I ask you to be my wife for all of our lives. Will you accept me?"

"I will. And do you accept me, my Khaled?"

"Completely."

He lay down again, caressing the side of her perfect face with a soft hand that had never known another's flesh. She looked up at him with timeless love, more powerful and deep than any he had ever known. For a moment, he seemed to see a wealth of constellations in the depths of her eyes, a glint of fire that he was certain had to be a trick of the light.

"I marry you in the name of Allah. When the mullahs arrive, the only thing that remains is the signature of the witnesses." He whispered. Zainab smiled tenderly.

"And I marry you, Mullah Khaled ibn Rashid ibn Omar. For all eternity."

"I love you." Khaled said, so softly that only she heard. "I love you and you are my wife."

"Yes, my husband. Yes."

And he closed his eyes, the torment of the darkness dispelled by her mercy, the demons that had haunted his soul for so long pushed away in a great rush by the light of her love.

* * *

Salahuddin and Nasir sat alone in the tent, the latter with his head in his hands. 

"Master, I do not believe she is dead. We would have found the body." he said, his voice raw from the wind and the heat they'd wandered through all day. The Sultan said nothing. He held Rana's soiled clothing in his hands and his face was unreadable.

"She may have been rescued by someone, or perhaps went into the hills."

Silence.

"You must not blame yourself, my friend."

"Who then," Salahuddin asked quietly, "should I blame?"

"No one."

"Ranin bint Ismael was my responsibility, my slave, and I made her my lover. It was weakness on my part. I have done a terrible thing. A series of them." he suddenly looked very tired, and all of his forty-seven years showed for a moment in the anguished lines on his face. Nasir leaned forward, wanting to do something to ease his friend's pain but unable even to ease his own. The horror of losing Rana mingled with the agony of knowing that she had chosen the Sultan before him, that somehow no matter where the future led a significant portion of her heart would beat only for the man who was once her Master. But Nasir's own love for Salahuddin was very great, and his heart passed this test. His eyes were kind when next he spoke.

"You acted as any man who felt for her what you do would have acted. Love, my lord, is never a mistake. And you do love her."

"Yes. I have loved Rana from the first moment I met her. I remember it well. I set her on my horse and rode away from that small, overcrowded tent, and she sat clutching her doll and shivering in my arms. After a time she looked up at me and asked me if I was the Prophet, peace be upon him." He stopped, his voice catching, and Nasir felt a lump form in his throat.

"I never knew that story. Tell me more, teacher. Tell me of Rana as you know her. When she returns, I will tease her about all of this and we will laugh together."

Salahuddin smiled tightly, knowing full well what Nasir was trying to do, and after a moment he continued.

"She was very small, as I am sure you remember. None of the other women had clothing to fit her."

"I remember! She wore your shirt and a boy's robe over it and was always tripping everywhere she went!"  
"And the shoes..." The Sultan prompted.

Nasir laughed, tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes.

"Those silly sandals cut in half to suit her size, all frayed at the edges so that her feet looked like they'd sprouted fur!"

Salahuddin was smiling openly now, recalling the odd little character they'd all watched with amusement for those first few years.

"She could never sit still. And she broke things and grew angry and made even more mistakes in her impatience. She set me on fire once, when she dropped a lamp in my lap."

"Indeed! I remember! You came running out of the tent and rolled in the sand and everyone was staring! She was terrified, but you couldn't stop laughing!"

"I still have the scar from that incident, and another from the next year when she dropped a shield on my foot. It broke two toes and I was in pain for a full month!"

"Ah, my friend! It is amazing that you lived through these events! Perhaps you would have been safer had she actually been _trying_ to kill you!"

They were both laughing, the tears running down their faces, shaking their heads and sharing the love they had for Rana.

Salahuddin glanced over at the sad, empty little pallet next to his bed and his smile faltered. She was out there somewhere. Maybe hurt. Maybe dying.

He looked back at Nasir.

"I would die in her place if Allah needs another servant so badly, my friend." Nasir said, reading his master's thoughts.

"So would I, did I not have such important work to do. Nasir, this is difficult."

"I know."

They were quiet again, and the shadows deepened. Nasir made no move to go, and Salahuddin did not ask him to. A chill wind blew through the assembled tents. The world seemed to be holding its breath.

* * *

Theo finished washing the girl and sat back, amazed at the amount of dirt and blood he'd removed. In all, her injuries were not bad. Only the gash on her head worried him at all, and now that she was clean and covered with a soft blanket he was able to turn his attention to the surgical necessities. Sabiha sat nearby, Andris behind her, and they took turns holding Rana's hand and talking softly to her while Theo cleaned and stitched the head wound. The child bore it well and did not cry out, her eyes looking from Sabiha to Andris to Theo without comprehension. She seemed to be trying to decide if she ought to to know these people. 

Sabiha, whose Arabic was best, spoke to her gently.

"Are you in much pain?"

"No. Do not trouble..." A look of confusion, the poor child's mind trying very hard to pull forth even one coherent thought.

"Shh-shh, there now my friend. It will be all right. Try not to think too hard just yet. You've had a very bad time out there in the desert and we need to heal you."

"What is my name?"

"I do not know. Can you remember what it began with?"

Rana tried, but her mind did not provide anything of value.

"I do not know. What is _your_ name?"

"I am Sabiha. This is Theophile the Healer, and the man behind me is Andris. He found you and brought you here."

Andris knelt by her bedside and took her hand, smiling shyly.

"I'm glad you're going to live now." he said. Rana hesitated. She felt that she really ought to be somewhere, doing something important. The light was fading from the sky and her ears strained to hear some sound, some call...

"I feel. I feel..."

Sabiha touched her shoulder, and the soft kindness in those wide gray eyes calmed the restlessness in Rana's chest.

"Don't worry about anything, please. Just close your eyes and rest. All will be well by morning. Let God mend." Sabiha said, and Rana closed her eyes obediently. She was so tired, so completely spent. An ache filled her body and her heart and she did not know why. In her fuzzy, confused thoughts she thought that she ought to begin warming the tea and preparing dinner, but for whom? Would father be home soon? Cousin Omar...why did that name sound familiar?

Theo finished the last stitch and covered her head with a soft white bandage. Then he stood up.

"I want her watched carefully throughout the night. Sabiha will take the first turn. Head wounds are nothing to treat lightly. From the sounds of the girl's ramblings, she's lost all or part of her memory. Andris, come with me. We need to discuss where she might have come from."

"I have a fairly good idea, Theo." Andris said quietly, and he looked once more at the beautiful woman caring for the beautiful child. For a moment, he almost envied the wounded Arab girl. Then he followed the Healer into the darkness.

When they were outside, Theo carefully closed the tent flap and tied it lightly against the breeze. The night was falling fast, stars appearing in an arc of glittering beauty above their heads. Andris waited until they were well away from listening ears to turn and speak to his friend.

"She's a slave. An escaped slave. And I think I know who her master was."

Theo dipped a clean cup into the bucket of water by the well and poured some of the sun-warmed water over his hands, cleaning away the blood. He looked curiously at Andris while he did so.

"And from where do these suppositions come?"

"From something the girl said while delirious. She spoke the name of Saladin. I think she is his slave directly."

Theo straightened, looking out over the desert as the last red rays of the sun vanished in the west. His face was sad and grim.

"And there is the final blow..." he whispered. Andris did not understand, and said so.

"The final blow? I thought you said the wound did not look deliberate."

"'The final blow' as in a metaphoric expression of lost presuppositions. The reputation of Saladin is good. He is considered a merciful and compassionate man. Judging by the marks on that girl's body and where they are placed, the whip weals and the nasty gash on her hip, the bite wounds in two places and a troubling little abrasion on her stomach suggesting a kick or blow to the abdomen recently...adding all of these things together does not give a good impression of whomever her master was. I didn't come here to have all of my heroes turned into demons by the harsh light of reality. It's the final blow to discover with my own eyes that a noble enemy may not be so noble after all."

Andris kicked at the dust and bit his lip in thought.

"Should we tell Lord Rand?" he finally asked.

Theo leaned against the well and folded his arms.

"If we do and he is feeling merciful, he may simply decide to let us continue to care for her and absorb her into the camp. If he is feeling unmerciful – which is likely considering the recent battle – then he may either wish to use her against the enemy or simply have her killed."

"I don't want that on my conscience." Andris said with passion. He had saved her life. That meant that the girl rightfully belonged to him now, and he would be damned if he let anything happen to her. Theo, as usual, understood immediately.

"You're a vassal. Anything you lay claim to belongs instantly to your lord. He'll take her no matter what."

"Damn it, I know! But I can't just let him hurt her on a whim! Theo, what did you do today?"

"I tended the injured and I treated some horses for hoof rot. Why?"

Andris leaned toward him in the moonlight, his handsome face earnest. Laws were laws and could not be broken outright, but he himself believed in a Higher Law that trumped all others. The Law of God. He was perfectly willing to bend the smaller rules a little to save as many lives as he could during this war, and what he was about to suggest would indeed blur the line between right and wrong in the the eyes of his lord...but not in those of his Lord.

"A few hours ago you were in the sick house. Right?"

"Yes. Yes, I was there for some time. An amputation had to take place, which took an hour and a half to complete and another two hours to clean up, then an additional hour to clean Elldin's throat wound again. It keeps filling up, poor man, with pus and blood. He still may not make it. At any rate, I was kept busy in there for the best part of the day. Why, I ask again?"

"Because I say you went riding in the desert to the southwest to get some fresh air and you found the girl yourself."

Theo cocked his head to one side, considering the intelligence of the plan. True, no one really saw him while he was secluded in the sick house. And he did often ride out to settle his uneasy mind in the afternoons. It made sense. He was not a vassal, not under the direct power of Lord Rand. As a Healer and animal tender he was viewed as a free agent. Under the law of the land , any thing he found on lands not belonging to any ruler was his to keep. And if he'd found the child outside of Rand's meager jurisdiction, then by the law the escaped slave's life belonged to him. He grinned.

"Without hesitation, I say that I _did_ in fact ride there earlier today. It must have slipped my mind. And the most miraculous thing happened while I was there. I found an escaped slave. Who is mine now, of course, no matter to whom she belonged before."

"Indeed a miracle, my friend." Andris said, patting his friend's arm, "Indeed a miracle."

* * *

Sabiha pressed a cool cloth to Rana's brow, trying to bring her a measure of comfort. The poor girl seemed so terrified and confused, and Sabiha's gentle heart ached for her. 

"Sayyidi...?" the girl murmured. It was Arabic for 'master'.

"No, little one. No, there is no master here."

"I hurt."

"I know. I am so sorry. Please try to relax, child."

"Rana."

Sabiha paused, looking down into those lovely dark eyes. Was the name 'Rana' hers, or did it belong to someone she was deliriously calling out to?

"Is that your name?"

"Name. My name. I don't know. Where is he? I must go...tea and oil...and, a-and..."

"Shh, it's going to be all right. Relax, Rana. You are safe now. No one will hurt you."

"Never hurt...passionate, not cruel." Rana tried to sit up, but Sabiha gently pushed her back onto the bed.

"I know. I know you must be feeling very frightened right now. Please try to relax. Speak slowly, don't strain yourself. I will stay with you."

Rana was shivering, she felt cold suddenly, and Sabiha noticed and drew another blanket up over her. There was no hesitation in her mercy, even though the men had burst into her tent and inflicted a little wounded girl on her. Tonight she would have to sleep in the chair by the bed, wrapped in a cloak. It would be cold and cramped and there was no telling how long she would have to endure this situation. But Sabiha was well prepared to handle any kind of hardship, especially after that horrible night that occurred only a few days ago.

Good _God_...they'd come out of the darkness like shadows, like ghosts, like nightmares. A hundred, two hundred, three...the Saracens moving in silent columns with the light from Aubrin's torches glittering in their midnight eyes and on their battle armor. Sabiha had been locked with the other woman in a small room beneath the castle, but she'd pulled free the wooden slats covering the door and escaped. If the castle was under siege and her father was in danger, then she would do whatever she could to protect him.

And then there was Andris. She would throw herself onto a Saracen blade before she would allow harm to come to Andris. She loved him.

Her terror was very great from the moment she ran into the hallway and up the stairs, and there was a whine of arrows and a deep steady thudding from the front gates. Men were shouting in English very close by, and she pressed against the wall and slipped past them, looking for her father or Andris to be certain they were safe.

And then she was lost in the confusion and the panic near the north wall. Men were shoring up a huge breach, a weakened area of crumbling stone. She heard them all talking to one another and yelling for more wood and more stones. It was complete chaos, and she found suddenly that people were handing her heavy rocks and no one cared that she was a woman during this panic.

Sabiha couldn't just walk away, she was needed all at once and the thumping was getting louder and now she could hear people yelling in Arabic...which was a very bad sign.

There were arrows flying over the walls and occasionally someone would throw a flaming oil jar. She was burned, cut with a shard of the ceramic pot while blazing oil scorched her shoulder. But there was no time. She kept piling up the rocks and taking orders from the desperate men whose job it was to defend the city from attack. Templars ran past with their swords drawn, and when the wall fell and the hateful Arabians poured through the breach Sabiha had caught up a fallen knife and prepared to do battle to defend herself. But they wouldn't fight her.

"COWARDS!" she had screamed, throwing herself at a foot soldier. The Saracen started to raise his blade, but saw that she was a female and merely snarled at her, striking her with the flat of his shield and knocking her onto the ground. She leaped up again, and the world had gone mad. She couldn't see for the fire and the smoke, couldn't hear for the screaming and the sound of stone crumbling, couldn't run because there was too great a crowd of fighting, sweating, bleeding, dying men before and all around her.

Sabiha stabbed wildly everywhere she could see brown skin, slashing from behind and causing many a man to stumble or whirl around to face her, thereby opening them to attack from the Templars with whom they dueled. She would have continued this had it not been for the stupid _horse_!

Sabiha felt a sudden blow to her side and fell to one knee, looking up just in time to see a huge black stallion rearing its lethal hooves above her. The Arabian warrior on its back was brilliantly attired in gleaming Saracen armor, the definite mark of a noble. And he was riding into the city itself. The nobles never did this unless the worst of the fighting was over.

Unless they'd won.

All at once she realized that the sounds were dying down, that her _city_ was dying, and that this arrogant bastard on the horse had led his savage troops to victory and now her entire life was in ruins. She raised the knife, and with a scream dove for him.

He was not paying attention to the slim woman who came from the side, and when her thin blade glanced off his armor he merely turned his head and looked down at her, crouching in the bloody dirt next to his horse. The ghost of some darkly amused expression crossed his features.

"If you intend to kill me, Christian, you will have more luck with a better weapon." he said, his heavy accent making poetry of the words. And he'd tossed something sharp and shiny point-first into the ground inches from her leg. A heavy dagger of perfectly-forged Damascus steel, still warm from his hand. Then he spoke to his stallion and was gone in one swift leap past her, gone into the smoke and the fires and the screams of the dying. Sabiha pulled the knife from the earth and ran a few paces after him, brandishing it.

"I WILL KILL YOU WITH THIS PERSONALLY, YOU VILE ANIMAL! I SWEAR IT BY MY OWN BLOOD! DO YOU HEAR ME DAMN IT?! I WILL BE THE ONE TO KILL YOU! I, SABIHA, DAUGHTER OF RAND DE AUBRIN! IT WILL BE ME!" She screamed, but he was gone. And the Arabs were pouring into the defeated city, and she was taken roughly by the arms. Sabiha was put into the great hall with the rest of the survivors to await her fate, the gift of the dagger hidden down the front of her dress. She found her father alive, and sweet Andris with his gentle eyes seemed to be on the verge of clutching her to him in relief. But the Muslims were close and watchful around them, and two days later they all found themselves sent off to live on an abandoned farm, drinking water from a well that had once been used to succor goats.

Sabiha tried not to think about that night. The poor little slave was a victim just as Sabiha and her family were, a refugee from the cruelty of the Saracens. She patted the girl's arm and noticed how close their skin tones were. Sabiha's own mother had been an Arabian, albeit a very kind and open-minded one. Not all of them were fanatical animals.

The girl moved again, but this time when she opened her eyes she seemed quieter, more composed. Sabiha leaned into the lamplight and smiled tenderly at her.

"Rana?"

"Yes. Yes, name. Rana"

"Alright, Rana then. How are you feeling?"

"Nasir?"

"No, there is no one here by that name. Is that your master?"

"Sayyidi?"

"Yes, Rana. Is Nasir your Sayyidi?"

"No. Salahuddin."

Sabiha paused, her eyes suddenly widening. She was about to speak when the tent flap opened again and Andris stepped in.

"Andris! She just said – "

"Who her master was? I know. I've just come from Theo. We will tell everyone that Theo found her, Sabiha. If we do not your father might have her killed in retribution. I am a vassal, so all that I find and all whom I capture belong to Lord Rand."

"But if she belonged to...to _him_..." Sabiha trailed off in shock.

"What of it? She is a human being. I will not have her executed for being unlucky and abused and miserable. She deserves a laurel for having the courage to escape! Please promise me you won't tell your father?"

"Of course not, Andris. I am not a monster."

He smiled at her, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

But later, after he'd left, she took out the heavy dagger and ran her fingers over it in the warm light. This slave, this little girl, had belonged to Salahuddin. The feared and respected Sultan of the Muslims. Sacker of cities and mocker of women and ruiner of lives. And the very man, as she discovered later, that she had sworn to kill. For he was the Saracen on the horse.

Sabiha did not sleep that night.


	18. The Move to Kerak

Author's Note - Yes, all. Before you flood me with PM's asking what I think I'm doing, allow me to explain. I had thought of Zainab as more than human for a long time. But no, I can't explain what exactly she is just yet. I have a few options on the table and I'll need a bit of time to pick the best one. Of course, your input matters immensely, so if you have any favorite creature from 12th century Islamic lore you're more than welcome to suggest it. I'm leaning toward half-djinn or perhaps half-Houri. If you've no clue what those are, do take a second and look them up. It's worth it, (although I personally have a huge problem with Houris and would love to kill them all off.) And for all you fans of Folk's 'Winterstar', our dear Ruffian has posted a touching poem for that tale as well. Gain her favor and she just might grace your own tales with her unique brand of lyrical flattery. ;) - The Noble Rot

* * *

The Move to Kerak

Well past midnight, Zainab pulled herself from the sleepy tender arms of Khaled and moved to the door of the tent in the moonlight. They'd continued to hold one another and not let go until weariness finally overtook them both, lying chastely clothed and tangled in an embrace of deepest love. She looked back at him, handsome and soft and so full of torment, now eased and resting after the emotional healing her unconditional love offered. The onyx-dark hair fell across his brow, the beautiful lips parted as he breathed, those perfect fathomless eyes closed in sleep. Zainab smiled gently at him, and moved swift and silent as a shadow out into the darkness.

It was child's play to enter the Sultan's tent this time, for she kept to the shadows and did not make a sound.

Nasir and Salahuddin sat together at the wooden table, not speaking, still in their dusty traveling clothes. Without pausing, Zainab moved into the light and sat down boldly beside Nasir.

"Is he sleeping?" Nasir asked without looking at her.

"He is. You were hard on him, my lord."

"And he was an ass."

"Peace, Nasir." Salahuddin said softly, wearily. Then to Zainab, "Why are you here, young woman? Have you not already earned the wrath of your husband?"

"I am here to bear this night of hell with you, my king." Zainab said softly, and nodded to Nasir as well, "And with you, my lord. I am her friend and I love her. We will suffer together."

Salahuddin looked into Zainab's eyes for the first time, and she instantly understood exactly what it was that Rana loved so greatly about this man. She reached across the table and put her small slim hand on top of his, not letting go, daring to touch a king and a man when she was a devout Muslima who truly believed in Allah and His guidelines. She touched him, and he turned his hand and wrapped his fingers around hers and accepted the comfort that she offered, even though by all the laws of their faith he should have asked her to go. Zainab placed her other hand on Nasir's, and he too did not pull away. They sat together in the candlelight and allowed the strength of one another's presence to calm the pain within. The moon rose and set outside, word spread through the camp in whispers that the Sultan's slave had run away, Khaled turned to embrace a small curly-haired girl in his dream, a girl who reached out in supplication. Hours passed. When Nasir laid his head on the table at last and fell into an exhausted sleep, Zainab moved to sit beside Salahuddin, closer to him than she had ever been. Closer than anyone dared to get save Rana and Nasir.

"Allah bless you." he said softly.

"It is not I who needs His blessing tonight, your majesty." she replied, and took his hand again.

A Sultan of countless armies, of hundreds of thousands of men, the leader of the Islamic world with the full might (for now) of the powerful Muslim religious leaders behind him. Vizier of Egypt, second in command to his mighty uncle Shirkoh and general under the wise and revered Nur ud-Din until these men died and he rose to the ultimate position of power. Victorious at Aleppo, Mosul, the barbarian lands to the west...all nations trembled at his passing. Those who had fought against him called him relentless and a master of strategy. Those who fought beside him called him beloved king. He was a living god in a time of great pain and strife for the Muslim people. All who knew of him and were themselves Muslims loved him so greatly that they tended to bow their heads when they heard his name. Bow their heads and feel an all-consuming joy that such a man had risen from among their people out of all the nations on Earth.

Zainab was frightened of him and respected him and loved him as the savior of her people, and the warmth of his closeness seemed a benediction. She turned to look at this proud Sultan, and the glitter of his black eyes in the dying candle flame told her that the stare was returned. Tonight he was not a god. Tonight he was as worried and full of sorrow as she was. He was Salahuddin the man, and his heart was breaking.

She overcame her fear and leaned her head against his shoulder, offering all of her strength to him. And he pulled away.

Just slightly, but it was there nonetheless, that subtle shift in his body. There was a limit, a line that he would not allow to be crossed, and Zainab straightened immediately and released his hand.

"Forgive me, Great One. I meant no disrespect."

"There is nothing to forgive, Zainab. You have not done anything wrong."

"I was too free with you, my King."

"But not wanton. I take no offense."

"I meant only to ease your grief, wa'Allah el azim. I know that I am not Rana."

Salahuddin turned to look at her, and she met his gaze. His eyes were so stern, such a depth of knowledge and compassion and determination shone forth even in the dim light. He was weary, she could see that, and in pain. She placed her hand on his arm.

The candle flame guttered, and went out.

Instantly Zainab looked away, squeezing her eyes shut.

But it was too late.

He had seen.

A hand, strong as iron but nevertheless gentle, took her chin and tilted her face up once more.

"Open your eyes, Zainab." he said softly. It was the tone of one who fully expected to be obeyed. The exhaustion had vanished from his voice. But she shook her head and did not do as he had told her.

"Look at me."

"My king, I should go. It is late – "

"In the name of Allah, I command you to open your eyes." There. With almost frightening prescience, he had said it. She fought hard to stop her lids from rising, but all of her kind were compelled by forces greater than themselves to do as they were told when the name of God was used. She looked at him, knowing full well what he was seeing, how much it must unsettle him as a good Muslim and a good man. Only complete darkness or great emotion betrayed her for what she was: not something fully human. And the Sultan stared long into those restless pools of light and fire and his expression did not change. He merely drank in the sight for a long time and said nothing.

Nasir sighed in his sleep, but did not wake.

"It is no matter," she heard the gentle whisper, and his words soothed her fears, "All creatures are equally the servants of God, Zainab."

Zainab felt her soul fill with joy, and she ignored the discomfort it might cause him and leaned forward into his arms. He held her gingerly for a few moments, and finally she drew back and smiled at him in the darkness.

He could still see her eyes, that much she knew. And he could see the loyalty and sympathy that shone there instead of tears.

"You are a kinder man than I could ever have hoped, Mighty Sultan."

Salahuddin sighed wearily and rested his head against the palm of one hand.

"Yusuf." He said softly. Zainab blinked.

"I am sorry?"

"Yusuf. It is the name I was born with, the name my mother called me. Tonight I do not much feel like 'The Righteousness of the Faith'. I loved only one woman before in my life, Zainab. That was my wife Jamila, whom I married initially to seal a treaty and then grew to love for her devotion and piety. When Rana was given to me I saw her only as a child who needed my attention and my protection. I taught her how to read and write. I fed her from my plate and she played dress up with my armor. In the night when terrible dreams robbed her of her rest it was to my bed she would tiptoe, not any of the women of the household. For the first three years of her time with me, Rana slept between my wife and I." he paused, and Zainab could see that he fought for mastery of himself, "She was so small, so innocent, so full of impatience and joy. I fell in love with her. The love deepened every single day that she spent at my side. When it became necessary for me to travel widely in defense of our lands and in conquest of others Rana threatened to starve herself to death if I did not take her with me. I acquiesced, though in all truth there was no danger of leaving her behind. I could not have lived without her touch, without her voice, without her presence. I am weak, a weak man who loves his slave selfishly and brought her into danger because of it. I watched her growing into a woman, leaving behind the innocence of her youth and becoming more beautiful and intricate than I could ever have imagined. Every time she looked at me, my heart filled with light."

"Oh Yusuf..."

"I never told her all that was in my soul. I kept my silence and my discipline, when all along Rana was more important to me than my own blood. There is nothing in this world that I desire more than to take her as my wife and spend what days that remain to me holding her in my arms as tightly as I am able. But I can not do this thing. I can not ask her to bind herself to a man who may have only five or ten years left. I am old, and I am a danger to all whom I love due to my position. My wife is safe under constant armed guard. Nasir is never without the company of a grandly dressed servant to draw fire when he must ride ahead of the army. My sister travels continuously with her family to keep from being found. Rana is not like them, she would not leave my side even if death itself appeared before me, and she is terrible at hiding. Were the enemy to discover how deeply I love this girl, they would harm her to torment and manipulate me. I cannot allow her to suffer, and I cannot allow Muslim lands to be lost for the foolish passion of one man. And so I sent her from my side rather than love her as I wished. My God, I would endure hell itself in her place if it was asked of me. I pushed her away, to Nasir I believed. But my heart is hers, Zainab. My heart is hers for all time. When and if I ever reach Paradise, it will hold no beauty for me before she arrives. I will wait at the edge of Heaven until I see my Rana, unwilling even to turn and look upon the face of God until my hand touches hers once more."

Zainab's heart broke at the power of these words. She had never heard him say so much at one time before, never heard him express himself so fully and honestly. They sat there in the pitch black and she reached out and touched his back, the dusty travel cloak that he had not removed.

"I will do all that I can to help you. It is not much, but all that I am and am capable of is at your disposal." she whispered. Some subtle quality had changed in the room, telling her that Nasir too was awake now and had been listening. She rose and moved through the perfect black without error, lighting the candle once again, dispelling the haunted darkness. When this was safely done she returned to the lonely table and sat beside Salahuddin once more.

And they passed the night like that, together in the agony and the worry and the loss and the love. All night, for hours upon hours without speaking. They stayed together until the dim sounds of the camp making ready began to filter through their misery.

Only then did Zainab gracefully take her leave.

"Great One, if you have need of me I will come. General Nasir, I am also at your service." She bowed to them.

"You have been of immense comfort this night, Zainab wife of Khaled. It will not be forgotten." The Sultan said quietly. She squeezed his hand and hurried from the tent.

Salahuddin and Nasir looked at one another, and together they rose from the table to endure what must be endured and finish what must be finished.

Twenty minutes later the call to prayer rang out.

* * *

Rana was burning up with fever when Sabiha woke from her uncomfortable perch on the chair beside her and felt the girl's forehead. 

"Oh merciful God, no..." Sabiha moaned, and ran immediately to fetch Theophile from the sick house. Ten minutes later he entered the tent and knelt by Rana's bedside.

"Sabiha, please wait outside. Go and find Andris, if you wish. I will need to speak with him."

She did as she was told, and after she'd gone Theo turned his knowledgeable eyes down to Rana. He touched her cheek, her forehead, and frowned at the heat. Then he removed the soaking bandage.

"Little girl, what you have endured I cannot fathom. But I will help you now." he said gently, and her eyes opened.

"Mullah Khaled, hear my confessions..." she whispered.

"I am not a mullah, child. I am a Healer. You will be all right."

He dipped a cloth in the pitcher of cool water nearby and draped it over her forehead, leaving the seeping wound exposed so that he could better inspect it. Rana was incoherent, switching from Arabic to English and back again.

"Killed the soldier, the guard...forgive me. Dis-disobeyed always your orders. F-forgive..."

"Yes, child, yes. You are forgiven." Theo said absently. The wound was too red, surrounded by peeling sunburned skin and abraded patches. Inflicted by a rock, perhaps? He still did not think it looked deliberate. He tenderly sponged the wound, pressing as hard as he dared to drain the pressure without causing her too much pain.

"My king, I love you...Allah p-protect forever..."

"Yes, little girl. Allah protects."

"N-never told her...what was in my s-soul..."

"Well, you should tell her soon then, child. Do you miss your mother?" Theo was trying to keep her talking, as insane as her ramblings were. She needed to maintain consciousness at all costs. The situation was very grave.

"I am sorry...he was going to...t-to rape me..."

"The lord of the savages will never find you, little one. I swear it."

"...so I b-bit him...scouting...wall to the north crumbled...RUN!..."

Theo slowly dropped his hand, trying not to make any sudden moves that would frighten her further. She was struggling, and it made his ministrations extremely difficult. Frustrated and concerned, he sought for a way to calm her.

"In the name of...of, well, Allah I suppose. Yes, all right. In the name of Allah I, um, I forgive you for your sins and, er, and I grant you absolution."

"...scout the wall...p-protect my brothers...Allah protect _M-ME!_"

"My God, I can't even _imagine_ what you've been through. Here, child, I need to turn you to the light...that's it. Try to hold still."

"...do not touch...d-don't rape me! N-not this way!"

Tears began to course down her cheeks, and Theo's heart moved him to put his arms around the poor shivering girl to comfort her.

A moment later he wished he had not.

Her teeth sank into his shoulder, deep enough to cause him to give a muffled yell of pain. He pushed at her, gently at first and then slightly harder when she would not release him.

"Child, little girl please! I beg you! I am not...going...to...hurt you!"

Theo finally slid his fingers up under her jaw and pressed – hard – against the pressure point he knew was there. It was the only thing he could think of to do, though he hated to hurt her.

Rana released him and the strength drained from her. She fell back on the pillows, whimpering.

Theo inspected his shoulder quickly, finding that she had broken the skin. No matter now, he would help her first and then deal with the trauma. Shaking, he wiped the blood from her lips as tenderly as he could.

She looked at him, not seeing him through her haze of fear and pain and confusion. The terrible dark heat was rising in her brain. Her blood was fire.

_'The fire inside the blood...'_

Rana could not move her limbs, and her mouth tasted of that coppery richness that she knew so well. Was it her blood or his? Where was she? Where was her Master? Was he touching her lips? No man in the world had a _right_ to touch her save one. She lay still and did not fight.

She'd bit him! He could hardly believe it. But why? He had only been trying to soothe her. The words she'd moaned before the bite rang in his head.

"You poor, poor thing." Theo said, comprehension dawning in his eyes. Someone had tried to rape her. In fact –

He moved to the door.

"Sabiha? Please come here."

"Of course." Sabiha moved into the tent again and closed the flap behind her. Theo brought her to the bedside and knelt down, his expression grave.

"The pressure is building on her brain. I will have to fix this. But first there is a task I must ask you to perform. Please examine her and tell me if this girl has been violated. At her age, if she is not a virgin than there must have been force involved. And be careful. She does not like to be touched." He indicated the bite wound in his shoulder. Sabiha eyed the bloody mark warily but said nothing. While Theo turned away, she swiftly did as he had told her, making certain to be as gentle as possible. After a moment, her soft voice cut through the breathless stillness.

"Theo."

He turned around, and the look on Sabiha's face told him all he needed to know.

Theo's rage suddenly broke free in his breast. It took every single ounce of strength he had inside his body, every modicum of composure and self-control to keep himself from screaming in shock and anger and running for the nearest horse.

There was no doubt. The slave had been ravaged.

"No, oh God no, little one. Oh what did they do to you?" Theo felt tears streaming down his face, and he wrapped the blanket a little tighter around Rana and stroked her hair, his heart breaking with pity. She whimpered again, and he kissed her sweating brow.

"Never again. Never again, I promise. You will be safe with me for the rest of your life on this planet, I swear to Holy Christ! I, Theo, will protect you forever. You are mine now. Oh sweet little child, you are safe!" He whispered against her hair.

His blood soaked his shirt at the shoulder. His tears wetted her face.

In the darkness of her nightmare, Rana only knew that someone was being kind to her. She reached out like a little girl and grabbed a handful of his cloak, clutching at him for safety like a damned soul holding to the wing of an angel.

"M-master..." she sobbed. Theo pulled her into his arms again, and this time she did not bite him. He picked her up off the bed and stood up, cradling her to his chest and weeping. Never before in his entire life had he felt such a wave of sick rage, or such a warmth of protectiveness. This child was as close to death as any soldier he had ever treated, the injury to her head would require immediate care. He could not fail her. Suddenly, the little escaped slave had become something more in his eyes, a metaphor perhaps for the collected horrors of this whole accursed war. If he could only save one person, he was determined that it should be this one.

Stumbling from the tent, Sabiha close behind, he ran into Andris. The vassal looked exhausted and worried.

"Is she dying, Theo? What can we do? Where are you taking her?"

"Hush. Follow me. I will need to bleed her right away. The pressure on her brain is too much. I might also have to bore a hole to release it. This will be unpleasant, and I need the both of you to hold her down while I do it."

Sabiha followed, her eyes grave, and the three of them moved hastily into the back of the sick house where Theo performed his surgeries.

It was dark inside, and the stink of misery and pain hovered close about. Theo laid Rana down on the long wooden table and affixed the leather straps about her waist and another across her chest. His heart was already aching for the pain he was about to inflict upon this sad, lost child. But it was necessary to save her life.

"All right now. Sabiha, stand on that side and take her arm. Andris, please hold the other arm. And for God's sake do not let go. I am going to help her. But it will be very bad before it gets better." Theo instructed them, and began to lay out his instruments. A small pointed bone saw for trepanning, a finely crafted silver needle for stitching the wound, a bronze basin to catch the blood, a sharp knife and several lengths of leather cord to tie off her arm while he bled her. A clean cloth to wipe the sweat from her brow, and another for his own forehead.

Sabiha's eyes found Andris, and he held her gaze as they took their positions.

"Have you gone to my father yet?" She asked. Andris shook his head, his warm brown eyes sad.

"I have not. When I saw him this morning he was in a foul temper. I fear what he will do to her...even if she _is_ technically under Theo's protection."

"I wish that I could speak for my father's kind side, but these days I cannot. He has gone mad with grief, and well he should. I feel that way myself. But as his only daughter, perhaps I should be the one to tell him, and appeal to his mercy."

"If anyone could sway the heart of a man it is you, Sabiha." Andris blurted out before he could stop himself. A rosy blush lit his cheeks at that, and he looked away.

Sabiha reached across and touched his hand, ending his misery at having been so blunt.

"I know what you mean, Andris," she said kindly, "It is all right."

Theo turned back to the table again, setting the bowl beside Rana's right arm.

"Hold her steady, please."

They did so, and Rana's eyelids flickered.

"Sabiha, speak to her in her own language. Tell her she's safe, tell her stories, your dreams...anything. Just keep her mind occupied while I bleed her. And when the trepanning begins I will need you to make _her_ speak. If I make even the slightest error, she may never again regain consciousness. Her voice and method of speech will tell me if I am damaging anything important. Andris, your strength might become necessary if she struggles. Lay across her torso if you must, but at all costs _keep her still_."

"I won't Theo. I promise."

Sabiha did not release Rana's arm, but she knelt down and put her lips close to the girl's ear. After a deep breath, she began to speak in Arabic.

"I know how frightened you must be. But please believe me when I say that we mean only to make you well. Your brain is under a great deal of pressure and we need to relieve it. The method that Theo is about to use will hurt, but he learned it during his time with your people and he has used it before. It will work, I promise. There is nothing to fear. Theophile is a very gentle man, he would never hurt anyone for pleasure. Not like those you had to run from. He is kind to animals and to children, to women and men and soldiers and everyone. I have never seen him yell at anyone before, and he would never hit you. This time, Rana, you will be treated well. Just a little pain, and then you can heal."

"Where...Master..."

"Not here, sweet Rana! Far from here! I am here now. I, Sabiha. And Andris the vassal who saved you and Theo who is growing to love you."

"Nasir...K-Khaled..."

"Are these more of your tormentors? Tell me the bad things they did to you, little Rana. It will help your soul recover if you get the pain out. What did they do to you? How did Nasir hurt you?"

Rana was confused. The Voice was asking her to describe things that had never taken place. Had Nasir _ever_ hurt her? Was this interrogation part of dying? But why did Allah have the voice of a woman? It made no sense.

"Nasir...nothing...tell..."

"He told you to tell nothing? You innocent child. He is not here, Rana. You may tell me."

"N-never...only accident...deserved it..._sharmuta_..."

Sabiha nodded, tears forming in her eyes. "And Khaled?"

"Only when Master...said 'p-punish'..."

"Oh sweet Christ!"

Theo looked up from tyeing off Rana's arm.

"I'm about to make the first cut into her arm, Sabiha. Talk to her of gentle things for a moment. Andris, hold her down."

Sabiha stroked the girl's face and turned her head away from what Theo was doing, looking into her liquid amber eyes.

"Rana, there is a place where I used to go when we lived in Aubrin. A spire of stone near the back wall that I loved to climb. I pretended it was a ladder straight to Heaven and that I would be able to reach the feet of Christ if I were to climb long enough. I knew that I could not reach the top, of course. It is too sharp to stand upon. But I climbed with the wind in my hair and I was happy." she said, keeping her voice light.

"Top is flat. C-climb up side away from wall..."

Andris' head snapped up and he stared at her.

"How the hell does she know that?!" he demanded, but at that moment Theo's knife slit across Rana's vein and she gave a short scream. Andris held her down and murmured gently into her ear.

"Relax, little one. No one is going to hurt you here. This is healing. We're trying to – damn it. Sabiha, what is the word I want?"

"_Yalta'im_."

"Yes, all right. We're trying to _yalta'im. _You're burning with fever..."

"_Hum-maa_." Sabiha supplied. She, too, was holding Rana still. The girl had begun to struggle against the knife. But it was over in a moment. Theo stood back, moving nearer her head, and her movements stilled.

A thin stream of blood coursed down her arm and into the bowl.

"This will help her?" Andris asked. Theo nodded.

"Venesection from a properly opened vein can lower the temperature of the body, which is what she needs right now. But the blood must be thinned further, this is too thick. Sabiha, give her some wine."

Sabiha stared at him, shocked.

"She's a Muslim, Theo!"

"She'll be a dead Muslim if we don't properly bring down her temperature! Just half a cup will do, there's a jug behind you. Pour it down her throat quickly, Sabiha. Don't argue with me...and don't give me that look, damn it. I am trying to save her!"

Andris didn't see what all the fuss was about. When Sabiha did not move from the spot, he grabbed the jug himself and tilted Rana's head back.

"Andris!"

"Sabiha, please. I don't want her to die either!"

"Are you saying that I do? I simply have more respect for their beliefs than the two of you seem to!"

"Look, God made mankind and men made wine. Happy? Besides, this isn't for pleasure, it's for medicinal purposes. Go on, Andris. Just a little."

Sabiha could not fight the both of them, and Andris poured a small measure of the rich red wine into Rana's mouth. She made a face and spit it out.

_Someone was forcing her to drink fire, to drink bile. Was she in hell? Had she answered the questions incorrectly? Was Allah angry with her? And why did her arm hurt so much? And her head? There was no end to the questions. Perhaps it was all a bad dream. Someone should be there to hold her, like they used to. Bad dreams – _

"_Mama Jamila, help me..." Rana moaned, and then her head was being tipped back again, and the bitter fluid filled her mouth once more. This time, she could not help but swallow. It was either that or choke._

"There, that should be enough. Thank you, Andris. Now hold her steady, I'm going to begin the trepanning."

He took the small cutting tool in his hand and chose a spot slightly lower than the wound on her head.

"Do not let go of her, either of you. She's stronger than she looks. Andris, put that stick between her teeth, they'll need to be kept occupied. Trust me. Are we ready? God have mercy on this child."

And he began. Rana's screams of agony were muffled by the stick and by Andris' shoulder, but they nevertheless filtered through to the sick house. Elldin's eyes snapped open as he lay sweating in his bed, and he turned to listen to the sound with electric alarm. She sounded familiar.

* * *

Thirty miles away, Salahuddin suddenly felt a stabbing pain in his chest, and he put a hand to the place and closed his eyes. 

"Ana bahebbik, Rana," he whispered, and did not look back, "I will love you forever. Wherever you are, I am with you."


	19. Healing

Healing

Theo did his work well, and after two hours they had drained off enough blood and fluid that he felt it safe to bring the unconscious girl back to Sabiha's tent and make her comfortable once more. The head wound was left open, an absorbent cloth beneath the injury, and Rana slept as one dead without moving.

Theo washed his hands in the trough behind the sick house while Sabiha and Andris stood by. Andris, who had seen many battles and had killed many foes, was nevertheless very disturbed by the suffering of the little girl. Sabiha seemed more composed, having worked beside the midwife on a few occasions and having become accustomed to the sights and sounds of women in pain.

Theo looked exhausted. His nearsighted blue eyes were full of concern, the tangled light brown hair that fell across his forehead hung lank with sweat, and there was a long smear of blood across his face from where he'd carelessly wiped his hand during the surgery. He looked the other two over appraisingly.

"All right. Sabiha, I think it's time you told your father before we get any deeper into this mess. Andris, perhaps you could stay with the girl? I will go with Sabiha and tell him our version of the events."

"Shyte and hellfire, Theo..." Andris started, and looked ashamed for having blurted out such language in front of Sabiha. She waved him on.

"Don't clean it up for me, there's a good man. I know how you soldiers talk when you're alone together."

"Um...yes. Well, sorry anyway. But Theo, do you really think we need to trouble the lord?"

"Don't be a fool, Andris. While I admire your methods of meting out justice and ensuring that the weak are treated well, I think your distaste for those in authority is problematic. Please keep an eye on Rana. Bathe her forehead with cool water and talk to her. We'll be back in a few hours, if that much."

* * *

Mullah Khaled and Nasir were bickering quietly behind the Sultan, trying to keep their voices low so that they would not intrude upon his solitude. 

"You drove her from my tent the night after the rush of her first battle in a state of _obvious_ physical distress and then you had the _gall_ to accuse her of indecency?!" Nasir hissed. Khaled shot him a black look.

"I know what I saw, Nasir. Do not play the fool."

"I only follow your lead! If we had done what you implied at the time, don't you think she would have been a bit more...more..."

"Disappointed?" Khaled ventured. It was Nasir's turn to glare.

"Relaxed, damn it. You know what it's like, returning from war with your blood pounding in your ears and the joy of just having lived through it making even the wind on your body unbearable. If I'd done to her what you thought I had, she would not have been shaking like a leaf and practically feral."

"You should be thanking me! I stopped her from committing a grave sin! Both of you, actually! I took her back to her master and saved her from your undisciplined passions!"

"Oh _well_ done! Really, that was _such_ a terrific decision," Nasir said acidly, "Idiot."

"What in all hell is _that _supposed to mean?!"  
"It means that you pulled her out of one tense situation and put her into another!"

"What? You're speaking nonsense, as usual. The girl is safest when she's directly under the supervision of the Sultan!"

"She was under it all right! You are a _complete_ ass!"

"Just what are you impl – "

His words were cut off as the army topped the rise and looked down into the valley below. Fifty miles away, across a dusty plain of parched ground, lay Kerak. From their vantage point it could plainly be seen that a small band of warriors massed in front of the keep, sunlight twinkling on their armor and shields. Khaled pulled his horse next to the Sultan's, ignoring Nasir completely.

"What do they expect to do with so few? Is this some sort of trap?"

Salahuddin gestured to his general, and Nasir came swiftly to his other side.

"My lord?"

"Take an advance guard and clear the way. Four hundred, no more. Inflict as much damage as you can. I want this over swiftly, Nasir. There is very little water here and the winds are not in our favor. The rest of the army will follow in one hour's time to attack the fortress itself. And let it be known that I want Reynauld de Chatillon alive."

"As my lord wills it." Nasir said instantly, all irritation at Khaled and misery in his heart vanishing in the sudden blaze of single-minded loyalty that marked him as the best possible second-in-command. He rode immediately to the ranks of cavalry and began to shout orders to his men.

Mullah Khaled looked carefully at the man beside him, at the rigid way he sat in the saddle and the hard gleam of his eyes. His expression was one of grim determination and just a touch of savagery.

Precisely the qualities the Muslim people needed in a leader at this moment.

"Sultan, the power of Allah is with us." Khaled said.

Salahuddin did not reply.

He was completely still save for the occasional stamping of his horse. Patient as the moon, readying the wrath that now covered his heart like a death shroud.

_Rana._

* * *

Lord Rand was not in a very good mood. In fact, one could postulate that he had rarely been in a worse one. The last time he recalled feeling this out-of-sorts was exactly four days ago when a posse of relentless Saracens had attacked his city and sacked it within a matter of hours. The earlier invasions had all been repelled and no bother...but this time it was truly horrific. A much larger force had moved upon Aubrin. The city fell after a few well-placed attacks on the outer wall. The Sultan himself was there. 

And Rand's beloved daughter had almost been _stabbed_ by the man. From _horseback_! The _nerve_!

Now, this day, he was looking from that very same daughter in incredulous irritation as she told him that the Sultan's runaway slave was sleeping off a trepanning in her bed.

Theophile, his soft-hearted Healer, was standing beside her with his arms crossed, looking irritatingly placid and serene.

Rand wanted to hit him in the face with a handful of horse manure.

"...that we need to keep her." his daughter was saying, cutting off his lovely image of Theo choking on excrement. Lord Rand looked down at Sabiha and his gaze softened.

"What was that, my little honey-lamb?" he asked, using the tender voice he saved only for her. Sabiha put her hands on her hips, idly tapping the hilt of the Saracen dagger she now always carried in anticipation of her next meeting with their leader.

"We need to keep her here, father. She isn't well, her memory seems to be gone, and she's harmless."

"My princess, my poppet, my pet...don't you realize that letting her stay here with us would be suicide if the barbarian chieftain is seeking her? The very best and kindest thing we could do would be to send her off to some village nearby and let her live out her life freely."

Now Theophile spoke up, and as usual it was more bleeding heart nonsense.

"The child cannot be left to her own devices. Not for quite some time I am afraid. My lord, please listen to your conscience. She is just a little girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen at best. She's been ill-treated and God has led her to us for some purpose or another. I found her, and therefore her fate is in my hands. I wish to help her and heal her."

"Young Theophile, mayhap your tender years are to blame for your naiveté. When you have seen as much as I have and lived as long, perhaps you will find that the decisions you make at need will change. It is my will that she go."

Theophile lowered his head.

"I am the only Healer for a hundred miles who is not a Muslim, my lord. And it is _my_ will that she stay." he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice. Sabiha looked mutinous, her lovely eyes hardening.

"And mine!" she snapped.

Rand was disconcerted. He had enough to deal with at the moment, what with the loss of his city and the subsequent risk of disfavor with the King of Jerusalem. He was well into plans with the nearest Templar stronghold at Kerak to have a battalion of knights sent to reclaim the city. Any little flaw in the plan may very well upset the whole thing. Harboring an escaped slave was one such flaw, and he didn't like it one bit.

One of his guards suddenly cleared his throat hesitantly.

"Um...my lord? If I may speak?"

Rand looked him over with irritation.

"Yes what is it, Forsythe?"

"Erm...well, I was on patrol last evening and...um..."

"Speak up, boy! We haven't got all day!"

Forsythe looked rather green.

"There was...ah...a party of three Saracens. Well...that is, two men and a woman. On horses."

"Well? What's so important about that? We're in Saracen territory!"

"Ah, yes my lord. Yes, that's true, sir. But...ah...here's the part that your lordship in his mercy and grace might want to know about. There was...there was a young man in armor on a very fine dark brown stallion and an...erm...well...an older gentleman in black on a black horse. They were...they were looking for a lost girl." Forsythe blurted out this last bit very fast.

There were a few moments of silence.

"What. Kind. Of. Horse." Rand said very slowly, menacingly. Sabiha was suddenly very still.

"A stallion. A very large, very beautiful stallion. And...and they were both rather...rather _haughty_ for simple traders."

"DAMN IT! Do you SEE what this has done, Theophile?! He's already looking for the damn girl! In PERSON! DAMN IT TO HELL!"

"Father, please!"

"NO SABIHA! I WILL NOT HAVE THAT CREATURE IN THIS PLACE!"

"FATHER!" Sabiha was yelling now as well.

"_NEVER! NEVER, I SAY!_" Lord Rand shrieked, pounding his chair like a child having a tantrum.

It was Theophile who spoke next, and his soft voice cut through the angry shouting match like a blade.

"If she is so important to him, perhaps it would be intelligent of us to heal her for now, then use the fact that she is in our power to some advantage."

Sabiha looked scandalized. She glared at him but said nothing, rightly suspecting that this was merely a ploy..

Lord Rand turned to Theo, his face very red with anger. He seemed to be about to begin yelling again, but then the full weight of the words he'd just heard sank in.

"You think this is...possible?" he asked carefully. Theo nodded, his eyes giving nothing away. Rand thought for a moment. Finally he gave a huge explosive sigh and smacked the edge of the sorry looking wooden chair he was using as a throne.

"Damn it! Theo, you may be right. But I want her presence here kept secret! Is that understood? Keep her identity concealed until we can decide how best to use her. Maybe we could force the barbarian chieftain to return Aubrin in exchange for her life."

"Perhaps, my lord."

Rand was warming to the idea.

"If he came himself over the desert then she must be very valuable indeed! Why, maybe the child is his illegitimate daughter!"

"I highly doubt that, my lord." Theo said icily. "Whatever compelled him to search for her so rigorously, it was beyond a medical doubt not love. And certainly not _fatherly_ love."

Rand, who had never understood the concept of love except in regard to his own daughter, waved the thought away with one baby-soft hand.

"We know very little about how these savages treat their children, Theophile. She could be extremely precious to him. But maybe...maybe it would be a good plan to keep her and heal her. And use her against this Saladin."

"As you wish. I shall heal her and then we shall see what may be done. It is a very wise decision you have made, noble and merciful lord." Theo bowed, hiding his irritation at Lord Rand's ignorance. Sabiha curtseyed to her father, forcing a smile to light her face in a childishly delighted manner.

"Yes, well. It's all for the war effort. We really ought to be planning more – "

A rider had just cantered up to the open door and flung himself from the back of his horse. He looked wild-eyed and tired.

"What is it?!" Rand demanded, getting to his feet. The rider came forward and bowed deeply.

"Sorry to interrupt, my lord. It is a matter of import."

"Yes, go on!"

"The army, my lord Rand. Salahuddin's army."

"What of it? I am aware that they are close by! This is not news!"

"They are moving, sir."

Rand's face paled, and he gripped the arm of the chair tightly.

"What, here?" He asked rather faintly. The rider shook his head, straightening.

"No, my lord. They are moving, all of them," he paused, meeting his ruler's watering eyes, "Toward Kerak."

A very tense few seconds passed, and suddenly Rand leaped up shouting.

"Send a rider to the King! And another, swiftly, to Kerak to warn them of the impending danger! And rally the vassals and their men to surround this place in the event of an invasion!"

"Here, my lord?" the messenger looked confused. "Do you intend to say 'Kerak'?"

"No! No, you idiot! What better time to attack and crush a foe than to wait until the eye of Jerusalem is turned elsewhere?! My God, he could be sending a force here as we speak!"

The small group of guards, not to mention Theo and Sabiha, were completely unable to see the logic in this. It was obvious that the cowardly lord was terrified of being beaten again, and had decided to protect himself rather than aide his nearest neighbor.

"Ah...yes, my lord." the rider said, and swept from the room before another word could be said.

"Heal that girl, Theo! Do it quickly! We may need her sooner than I thought! Go now, and see that my will is done!" Rand said rather grandly. Sabiha nodded to her father, loving him despite his numerous flaws for the simple fact that he _was_ her father after all. And without pause she and Theo withdrew. As soon as they were out of earshot, Sabiha punched him in his bitten shoulder as hard as she could. He yelped, clutching the place.

"Stop that! Look, hang it all, don't you see? I had no choice! If Rand forced us to send the girl off it would spell her death! I've bought us some time!"

"You've planted a seed that could grow into all-out destruction for the remnants of this city! Playing with Saladin is not a wise idea, _Theo_!"

"Neither is calling him a filthy animal, _Sabiha!_"

"Perhaps not, but at least I have proven that I am not half the coward my lineage would suggest." Sabiha grumbled. Theo put his hand on her back.

"You didn't have to prove that, Sabiha. We already knew it."

She grudgingly accepted the compliment, looking slightly mollified.

"Father did bring up one good point, though."

"Which is?"

"Why would the Sultan come looking for her himself if she is nothing more than a slave? Surely he could find others?"

Theo looked off across the desert, thinking.

" I do not understand it either, Sabiha. I do not understand it at all..."

* * *

Nasir had little trouble routing the small force in front of Kerak. There were so few of them, but they had fought bravely and he made the decision to spare as many lives as possible while still rendering them incapable of further defense. When the leader of this scrappy little band of opposing soldiers was brought to him and laid at his feet, he had been shocked and a little delighted to find that it was none other than Balien of Ibelin. The very knight he and Mahmoud al Feiss had met a few weeks prior in the desert. At that time, the Baron had spared Nasir's life. Now it was time to return the favor. 

He stood looking down into the brave brown eyes of his noble adversary, and noted with respect that the man did not look frightened. He did not grovel or beg for his life. He merely asked in a tired sort of voice what was to become of he and his men.

"As you desire." Nasir replied, "'You reap what you sow'...you have heard of this, no?"

Balien nodded, catching the irony of a Muslim quoting the Bible.

"Get up." Nasir said kindly. He could not bear to see such a proud warrior on his knees.

Balien got to his feet. He was young, far younger than most of the Barons. Rumor had it that he was the bastard son of Godfrey the Merciful. Such things were known to happen, and frequently. But it was unusual for such a boy to inherit. From his actions and courage and lordly demeanor it was easy to see the mark of the young man's father in him.

Nasir knew that it would not be long now. Salahuddin had given him an hour, and that was almost up. He glanced at the horizon, and saw there the dark line of foot soldiers and cavalry that he was expecting. A distant war horn sounded.

"You may go into Kerak, but you will die there. My master is here." Nasir warned. In all actuality, he was rather hoping that the young knight would take his troops and simply abandon the city to the fate that awaited it. Salahuddin was distraught over the loss of Rana, and was subsequently in no mood to show mercy. The sooner this brave Christian Baron left, the better.

Balien looked uncomfortable. But then, behind him in the far hills, like a mirage against the dusty sky...Nasir saw it.

The glittering of a cross. A huge cross gilded with pure gold and many diamonds, carried by hand into battle by a dozen strong men.

Common armies did not carry this Cross, which was rumored to be the very one upon which Sayyidina Isa died over a thousand years ago. Only the king of Jerusalem traveled with the Cross. Which meant that he was here.

Personally.

Nasir turned to a rider.

"Tell my lord Salahuddin that Jerusalem has come." he said, and the rider dashed away immediately. Nasir spared his friend another glance, knowing that the two men might have to fight one another before the day was finished.

Tense moments passed. The two armies drew near. And Nasir waited.

He could see Salahuddin and his personal guard moving ahead of the troops, the common soldiers drawing to a halt and allowing their king to pull forward to negotiate. From the restless way the Sultan handled his horse, Nasir could see that he was extremely agitated. And the leper king drew forth on his own horse.

Nasir looked at Balien, standing there beside him with an expression of weary disinterest. He did not seem afraid, though his death was possibly upon him. Could it be that the man simply did not care? Or was his faith so great the he, like Nasir, trusted to God to sort out this mess...

* * *

Far out in the center of the proposed battlefield, the Sultan listened to King Baldwin softly tell him the error of attacking Kerak. Salahuddin could not deny Baldwin's words. It would indeed be a long and terrible fight if the two armies clashed in such an inhospitable place. There was no water source save for the wells within Kerak, the winds were too moist for this time of year and would blow the fetid vapors from any slain and rotting bodies over his entire army, possibly bringing disease. All of them would die there, in the dirt before Kerak castle, just as Baldwin suggested. 

And he'd promised to punish Reynauld, which had been the intention of the siege in the first place. A possible way out, a reprieve from the hellish mess that this attack would certainly be, was calmly and rationally being offered. Despite the Sultan's desire for blood this day – rivers of it, if possible, to ease the pain in his heart – there were the hundred thousand and more lives of his men to think of, and their families. Their wives waiting at home for men who would never return.

A light breeze washed over the two kings, and Salahuddin felt suddenly very old and tired. Young men may love war, love the stink and the rage and the pain and the violence. It was the old men who yearned in their hearts for peace. The old men...and the men who knew they would never live to be old.

"Do we have terms?" King Baldwin asked, his voice muffled by the elaborate mask he wore to conceal the ravages of leprosy that would one day kill him.

Salahuddin nodded shortly.

"We have terms."

He saw how stiffly the king sat in his saddle, how the hands that gripped the reins were more heavily bandaged than the last time they'd met. And he could read the weariness in those milky blue eyes. It must be a sort of agony to feel no agony. To have your body disintegrating all around you and feel the weakness taking hold and not letting go. Mercy came easy to the heart of the Sultan. He wondered if King Baldwin had some soft-handed slave back at the war camp who would soothe his suffering when he returned.

He hoped so.

"I will...send you my physicians." Salahuddin said kindly. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes were haunted. There were many brands of pain. His own heart was wet with the tears that he could not shed. They both suffered, and in his compassion he simply wanted to help.

Baldwin touched his head in a respectful gesture of friendship.

"Assalamu alaikum."

"Alaikum salam." Salahuddin replied, and turned his horse back to the waiting guards.

* * *

It was a significant effort, turning the hundreds of thousands of men around and passing out new marching instructions. They would be retreating to a site by Jericho near abundant water and fruit trees, a haven in the desert where the men could rest and prepare themselves for the next stage in this never-ending war. They marched all day and into the night without cease, using up the energy they'd saved for fighting the Templars. Near dawn, they arrived in the sheltered valley and began to set up their tents. Exhaustion silenced the men; even the normally rowdy foot soldiers said very little to one another while they built cook fires and aligned their tents for sleep. 

Nasir found Salahuddin at the heart of the encampment, overseeing the building of the horse corral to contain the precious and irreplaceable herd of mounts they brought with them. His own horse, and Khaled's and Nasir's, were kept in a separate pen nearby.

"Master?"

"Nasir. I was glad to find that you were not among the dead. Have you seen Khaled?"

"Yes. He is brooding by his tent near the well. He does not look happy, my lord."

"As I expected. He will undoubtedly wish to have words tomorrow. But in a few hours' time there will be a reason for him to smile again."

"How so?"

"The new mullah from Aleppo will be here. A messenger found me an hour ago and informed me of the news."

Somehow Nasir doubted that the presence of yet another mullah would please Salahuddin very much. Nor himself, for that matter. Nasir had not forgotten the icy tone in Khaled's voice the last time they talked.

The corral was completed, and Salahuddin gestured for Nasir to follow him as he walked back to his tent. The ride had been long, but the Sultan showed no weariness. There was a stoic set to his expression that Nasir had never seen before. He seemed almost to be made of stone.

They entered the tent together, and the Sultan sat down on a black divan and removed his helmet, looking at the floor.

"My sister..." he said, and Nasir immediately sat across from him, listening intently. It was only rarely that Salahuddin mentioned his closest living relative.

"Yes, my friend?"

"Is she safe?"

"They have moved to Arimathea, lord. It is a safe location. Are you concerned? I could send orders to move again."

"Do so. The sooner the better. I want her taken somewhere far from any city. I have already lost Rana to my own foolishness. I cannot bear to lose my sister. This war is, unless I am very much mistaken, headed for great ugliness. Sitt es Sham, they call her. My beloved Lady of Syria, most beautiful and gracious of my sisters, is vulnerable as long as there is war."

"She will be safe, my master. I will see to it personally if necessary. And we have no proof that Rana is dead."

"That is true," Salahuddin conceded. "But neither do we have proof of her survival. Still, I greatly suspect that she has been taken in by one of the surrounding cities. It may be that we shall find her again soon. Allah knows."

Nasir also removed his helmet, and passed a hand wearily through his sweaty hair. He glanced around, noticing that only a few lamps were lit, no incense or scents of cooking food, no soft singing coming from the shadows as Rana went about her evening tasks. It felt cold and empty. Salahuddin was fading before his very eyes, becoming somehow less bright in his grief.

Nasir sought about for a way to offer him some strength. He stood up and went to the door of the tent, speaking softly to one of the guards.

"Go and find the slave Aisha. Tell her master Yasan that she is needed by the Sultan this evening. Rana is indisposed for the time being, and our master requires the loan of his slave instead. And tell Aisha, when you are alone, not to be afraid – the girl is a bundle of nerves even when there is no danger."

"To hear is to obey, General."

Nasir understood. Nasir always understood, and he never failed to do exactly what was necessary. He moved back into the tent and began to heat some water above the oil lamp. Salahuddin looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Making tea, sir."

"I do not want any tea, Nasir. And I assure you that I am quite capable of making it myself if the need arises. Who do you think taught Rana how to do her tasks?"

"You and your wife. I am the one who showed Rana how to cook a fish, though. She kept leaving the guts in until I taught her how to remove them."

Salahuddin nodded ruefully.

"I remember. It was disgusting. And sometimes the pressure would make the entire belly explode." He stood up, unbuckling his armor, "At least she knew how to dry fruit. I lived on the stuff for almost a full year. She served it with every meal."

"And you used to throw everything else onto my plate when she turned her back."

"A good second in command doesn't complain, Nasir."

Nasir smiled and added some fragrant loose tea to the bottom of three cups. He set them on the table and patiently watched the water while his master finished removing the fifty pounds of armor he wore to protect his life while they traveled. It was an added defense ever since the attempt on the Sultan's life three years prior when an assassin had actually managed to get close enough to snap off a blade between two of his ribs.

Nasir had awakened in the night to the sounds of a struggle, the crash of a lamp being knocked over and two bodies hitting the floor. They were camping the night before a siege – Rana and the rest of the women were not there. When Nasir heard his master cry out in pain, and then heard that cry turn at once into a snarl of rage, he had leaped from his bed and dashed into the nearby tent. The would-be assassin was dead within a matter of minutes, Nasir's blade stabbed through his back and Salahuddin's own weapon protruding from his left eye socket. Since then the Sultan made certain that, while traveling for military purposes, he was never left alone with anyone save Nasir or Rana. There could be no trust during these troubled times.

The guard at the doorway stepped aside, and Aisha was led in. She looked, as Nasir had predicted, terrified.

Nasir went to her with a gentle smile.

"Aisha, is it? Do not be afraid. Our Sultan requires assistance this evening – "

"I most certainly do not! What is this, Nasir?" Salahuddin said sharply.

" – and I could think of no one better than you to comfort him. You know Rana is missing for the moment, yes?"

The girl nodded, her large doe-like eyes modestly averted. Nasir patted her head.

"She will be found. Until then, do you think that you could prepare dinner and finish brewing the tea? And do whatever else the Sultan tells you to do. Come every evening, even if he claims not to want you here. Thank you, Aisha."

Salahuddin watched them with irritation plainly stamped on his face. When Nasir stepped back and Aisha began to perform the duties he'd given her, he pulled his general aside.

"I do not want to be bothered this or any other evening, Nasir! Do not attempt to replace Rana to placate me. I would think that _you_, of all those who know me, would understand that she is irreplaceable."

"My lord, we have had an extremely trying day. I beg you, let the little Jordanian girl take care of all the little details that you can't be bothered with. She is not here to replace Rana. No one ever could. But she can be of help."

"You are meddlesome!"

Nasir smiled wearily.

"And you are stubborn, my king. But your will is law, and if you truly do not wish to be treated as all the Sultans before you were treated, with attention and comfort given at the end of a long ride so that you can recover and continue to be an effective leader, then who am I to stop you?"

Salahuddin narrowed his eyes, a gesture he almost never made toward his longtime friend and advisor. Had Nasir not been made of sterner stuff than most, he would have taken a step back. But he held his ground, and when Aisha began to hum softly under her breath as she heated coals for steamed figs, some of the tension went out of the Sultan's posture. The sound reminded him of the woman he longed most to see.

"Fine. Fine, Nasir. But only for now. Rana will be found soon. Send riders this night to the encampment of Rand de Aubrin and William of Ussaron and find out if they have any information. We must begin planning the next stage of this movement. I do not want to be pushed into making a premature move, especially by the Templars who seem to take pleasure in openly defying me."

"Reynauld de Chatillon is excellent at provocation."

"For now he toys with us, breaking treaties at will. But when the time comes, Nasir," the Sultan's voice suddenly went very cold, "I want him brought to me _alive_."

Nasir nodded grimly.

Aisha set a small tray of food beside the men, pouring hot water into the teacups that Nasir had laid out and offering first the Sultan, then Nasir a cup. She bowed as she did so, her eyes on the floor.

"Thank you, Aisha." Salahuddin said softly as she served Nasir. The girl froze, and a moment later she glanced over at him. There were tears in her eyes. Then, mortified, she dropped her gaze instantly and backed away. The girl's head was down, she was visibly broken and terrified. Nasir frowned as he watched her scurry into the back of the tent to make the bed.

"Yasan does not seem to treat his slave well." he said in a low voice.

"She is _his_ slave, Nasir. This is between Yasan and Allah."

"Rana is your slave. Would you feel comfortable with her cringing away from you and bursting into tears whenever someone else thanked her because she was unused to kindness?"

A muscle twitched in Salahuddin's jaw as he considered this. He hated the abuse of women and children. A great deal could be learned about a man by watching the way he treated the helpless, and Yasan had failed to impress him in this regard.

"Aisha, come here." he said, and the girl crept towards him at once. She dropped to her knees before his chair, her forehead almost touching the floor as if in prayer. It was clearly a practiced gesture. The girl had been _trained_ to behave in such a manner, and she did not dare deviate from her duties even for a moment. The Sultan's heart gave a twinge of guilt. He was responsible for every member of his encampment, even this poor pathetic girl before him. Her life had been very hard thus far. She was the daughter of a poor man, forced into slavery at the age of seven to repay a debt owed to Yasan. That was six years ago, and she had suffered daily the casual neglect and frequent cruelties of her master since then.

The girl was more than just a subject of his – she was a friend to Rana. And as such, Salahuddin felt that he owed her some measure of compassion. He touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

"Forgive me, Hand of Allah, for daring to look at you. I am the lowest animal, unworthy to gaze upon the face of one so powerful." she said very fast, breathlessly.

She was terrified. The child honestly thought that he was going to hurt her now. It sickened him.

Nasir sat down heavily across from his friend, his eyes sad and weary. He and Salahuddin exchanged a look over the top of her bowed head.

"Aisha, you are worthy. In this tent, when you come to me, you will not look at the floor. Do you understand?" Salahuddin asked gently. The girl at his feet shifted uncertainly. She seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but could not bring herself to do so.

"You wish to ask a question?"

Nod.

"What is it, Aisha?"

"May I...may I look at you again, your Majesty?"

"Of course. Whenever you wish."

Aisha raised her eyes and gazed upon the face of her king for the first time. She had seen him from afar, of course. They all had. But Yasan forbade Aisha from looking up at any man...including himself. Even when he took his pleasure from her, which he did on occasion, he did not allow her to look into his eyes. He told her that she was unworthy to look into the face of her betters. And she believed him.

This man before her, sitting placidly with an easy grace that her own master would never have in a thousand lifetimes, was treating her with more kindness than she had ever been treated. His eyes were dark and gentle, his countenance handsome and noble and full of compassion. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest, and in a moment he had gained all of her loyalty in a way that Yasan never had, not in six years. Aisha would have been willing at that point, if asked, to endure any torture for any length of time if it would bring one more moment of tenderness like this into her life. Just one. She leaned down and kissed Salahuddin's feet with great reverence, then looked up at him again with worship in her eyes.

"Thank you, your Majesty. Allah bless you forever for your mercy."

The Sultan squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, sympathy pinching his heart. This girl would never be more than a mouse because of what had been done to her. The lioness that lived within his beloved Rana would not stir in Aisha's heart. She was too broken, too beaten into a kind of submission that robbed the soul of its natural strength and made every living moment a pale shadow of what it could be.

"Get up, Aisha. Sit there by the fire and have some tea if you would like. You must be very tired from our journey. It is not easy even for the warriors, let alone the women who travel with us. And please eat something."

Aisha nodded gratefully, her eyes still locked to his face for a few moments. She seemed to shine with happiness as she moved to sit on the floor near the fire. Not since she was taken from the house of her father had she been treated so well. She envied Rana suddenly, and a small mean part of her was glad that the other girl had gone so that she, Aisha, could be sitting here now even if only for a few hours. But she felt terrible a moment later for even thinking such a thing. She loved her friend, and was horribly worried for her.

But the tea was good, and when Nasir moved to drape a heavy cloak around her shoulders to chase away the chill of the night, Aisha thought that she might die of joy. She looked up at him as well, emboldened by his kindness, and was startled to find that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. This was the man whom Rana loved? Aisha could see why. His eyes were dark and kind, his smile as brilliant and warming as the sun. She did not want to leave this warm, comfortable tent and return to the frozen hell that was her life. Sighing, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders as the two men withdrew to the table and began to talk quietly, Aisha closed her eyes and offered up a prayer for her own deliverance as much as for Rana's safe return. She did not understand where Rana had gone or why, but the whispers that coursed through the camp told a sordid tale of the Sultan's slave being found in the bed of General Nasir and being punished harshly for it, causing her to run away. Secretly Aisha did not believe that the Sultan would ever punish Rana. He adored her, it was plain. Something else was going on, but she could not figure it out.

And so she did the only thing she had ever done. She waited, and she prayed.

* * *

The shadows lengthened. At long last, Nasir dismissed her and she made her way back to Yasan's tent in the gloomy darkness. The light of kindness had bathed her soul and healed the hurts that had festered there for so long. And so it was with a new peace that she slipped into the tent and knelt immediately at the feet of her master to await his instruction. 

Yasan looked up from sharpening his sword and glared at her coldly.

"Well?"

Aisha did not speak. She merely bowed lower, touching her forehead to his foot in a gesture of total submission.

"Why did the king's pet animal run away? Are the rumors true? Did she play the whore with that general of his?"

"I do not know, my master."

"They didn't speak of it?"

"They did not, my master. The General only said that Rana was gone for now and would be found. The Sultan did not say anything at all about his slave, my master."

"Huh. Maybe he's glad that she has gone. I certainly am. And it is better for you not to have such an influence, slave girl."

"Yes, my master."

Yasan drew the sharpening stone down the length of the sword edge. It made a sinister scraping sound as he did so.

One long stroke.

_Snick._

Another.

_Snick._

"What did you do for the Sultan?"

"I made dinner and served him tea, my master."

_Snick._

"Unremarkable. Anything else?"

"No, my master."

"You'll do what he tells you without question and come back immediately. No matter what it is, slave girl. He is the Sultan, and you are nothing. If you need a bath after serving him you'll do it here. If you need a Healer, I will be the one to send for him. Come directly to me the moment the king finishes with you no matter your state."

"As you wish, my master."

_Snick._

"Did you overhear anything?"

"I did not, my master. They spoke very softly to one another, my master."

"Because they know better than to trust a female, even a scrawny little thing like you."

"Yes, my master."

_Snick._

Yasan watched her, waiting for her to lift her head or shift her position or do any small thing that he could then punish her for. He could not explain why hurting her gave him such pleasure. He only knew that it did. And so he punished her often, personally. Her back and thighs and even her small stomach bore the marks of the whip he carried with him at all times, and this was nothing next to the bruises he left. Only her face was ever left untouched, for he had grown rather fond of it. She was a lovely little thing despite her shocking foolishness. Even for a _female_ she was stupid.

The girl did not move, though, and after a time he grew bored with her pathetic groveling.

"Turn down the bed. Get into it. And before you do, extinguish all but one lamp."

"As you desire, my master."

_Snick._

"We shall see about what I desire after I finish this, slave girl. We shall certainly see."

A shiver of fear ran through Aisha at his words, but she did not dare show outwardly the horror that she felt. After doing as he had told her, she removed her clothing and lay down obediently on the bed. A slave gave her master whatever he wanted. A slave opened her soul and her mind and her life and her legs because not to do so would invite punishment and death. But Allah was there with her in the dark to put His hand over her heart and dull the sting.

Later, Yasan's breath against her ear and his hands pinning her wrists down with unnecessarily cruel force, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall the kindness of the Sultan and his General.

It was the only light, the only ray of warmth in her whole world.

_'I hate you. I hate you, master. I hate you and I would watch you die if I could.' _she thought, her body in a tired, familiar sort of pain from his viciousness and her soul dying inside her with every moment.

But in her mind, in the secret place where she kept the tiny bright jewels of her strength and her happiness and her self-respect, she held the image of the Sultan's beautiful eyes, and the feeling of Nasir laying a cloak around her shoulders against the cold...

* * *

One hour before the dawn prayer, a line of horses made their way into the camp, heralded with great pomp by a young man bearing a black standard, the name of Allah stitched in heavy gold thread upon the flawless midnight background. Nasir, slipping out of his tent for a walk before Fajr, squinted through to gloom to see what the new mullah looked like. He was startled to see over two dozen men assembling in the clearing beside the horse pen. Every single one of them wore the black robe and turban that signified a religious leader of high standing. 

The council in Aleppo had not sent one mullah.

They had sent thirty.


	20. Revelation

**Revelation**

Rana slept hard for two full days, turning in her nightmares, shivering and sweating through every layer of clothing that her Christian benefactors laid over her.

And Allah mended.

On the afternoon of the third day, the miracle that they'd all been hoping for happened. Theo was sitting beside her, a book open in his lap, when he heard a soft sound that was unlike any other the girl had made so far.

"Where am I?" she asked, and her voice was clear. He laid aside the text and leaned over her, his hand going at once to her forehead.

It was dry.

"Praise be to God! Oh, little girl you_ have_ given us a scare!" he said, smiling. Rana did not recognize him, and his accent was strange. Her thoughts were fuzzy, as though they had been wrapped in blankets before being tucked back inside her head. She looked carefully at this man before her as though memorizing his features. Thick, curly hair the color of hazelnuts and freshly ground cinnamon hung all about his long face, accentuating his high cheekbones and generous lips. The proud nose was long and curved and beautiful, a pair of brilliant blue eyes the color of summer set deep on either side. He was very striking, and even in her weakened state Rana could appreciate the artistry of this man's face. Was he her brother? Father? He did not look old enough to be her father. But then, how old was _she_?

"I can't...remember..." she said slowly, and the man gently stroked her cheek in what she found to be an extremely intimate gesture.

"Your memories may return in time. In fact I am certain they will. Don't be afraid. I am called Theophile, and your name is apparently Rana. You are a Bedouin who lived as a slave for many years under the rule of a cruel master. You escaped, my dear. And somehow God guided your feet here. You were found in the desert, dying and surrounded by vultures. But it is all over now, Rana. We will protect you."

"How old am I?"

"It was difficult to tell. You are small, and we all thought you to be much younger than your real age at first. But I have examined you, and my best guess is that you are somewhere near the age of fourteen or fifteen."

"Who are you?"

"A friend to you, I swear in the name of Holy Christ. I am responsible for you now, and I will not fail in my duty."

"Am I in danger?"

Theo smiled again, leaning forward to press a kiss to her brow.

"Not anymore, dear Rana."

He was distracting her. She felt somehow that he was not supposed to be touching her and kissing her this way. That he had no right. But why this was, she could not say.

"Why does my head hurt so badly?"

Theo gently peeled back the bandage over her head and looked at the slowly healing wound. The fluids he'd drained from the damaged portion of her brain had relieved the pressure, and the reduced swelling of the tissues beneath was noticeable. He would have to keep the hair in that area trimmed very short while the wound healed.

"You sustained an injury in the desert. It was necessary to remove a small portion of your skull to reduce the pressure on your brain."

Rana was quiet for a moment, watching him carefully.

"Then...you saved my life with your skill?"

Theo touched her face again, a smile lighting his eyes.

"I did." He said softly. Rana lifted her hand and placed it against the back of his, and in her heart she felt deep gratefulness toward this stranger who had done so much.

"Thank you, Theophile." she whispered. Some nagging voice from the bottom of her heart tried to tell her something, some name, some love or loyalty that she would do well to recall right now. But Rana was tired and in pain and she pushed the little voice aside. Whatever hell she had come from, whatever cruelties she'd suffered at the hands of this master that her savior had spoken of, it was in the past.

And tightening her hand on Theo's, his blue-skies-over-Jerusalem eyes staring into her own, Rana forgot everything but the gratitude and the tenderness that was before her now.

* * *

"Thirty? Why does the council believe we need so many, my love?" Zainab asked her fiance. Mullah Khaled was wrapping his turban, his hands moving with practiced quickness through the motions. He did not look at her.

"The armies will require extra religious attention and guidance over the coming months, Zainab. Still, I was unaware that so many would be sent. They are naturally under my command, but make no mistake: this is a very real message from the council."

"What message?"

"Perhaps they feel that our Sultan is not making enough headway. I have not been pushing the will of our people hard enough with him. These extra mullahs are as much a message to me as to Salahuddin. He will be – hand me that pin, won't you? – he will be under more pressure than ever now."

He fumbled with the pin, distracted and irritated, and stabbed himself promptly in the process.

Zainab stood up and moved to take his hands in her own, kissing his injured fingertip lightly before reaching up and finishing the pinning for him. He looked worn and nervous and determined all at once. Zainab stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek for a moment.

"You care about him." she noted. Khaled sighed and his shoulders sagged.

"Damn it, yes. The added pressure of my brethren could not come at a worse time. With Rana gone and yesterday's aborted siege on Kerak, the Sultan's patience is somewhat stretched. I have traveled with him for over ten years, and I know what to expect when that look comes into his eyes. It is my intention to speak on behalf of the other mullahs, Zainab. Were they all to barge into his tent and start admonishing him at once there would likely be trouble. If any lecture has to come, it will come from me."

"And you will handle the discomfort and the anger? He may not be over-gentle on you, my beloved. He does not seem to be that kind of man."

"I will handle it. Better to have this war between the religious leaders and the military balanced upon my shoulders than those of someone else's. My brethren are not as diplomatic, and they certainly do not care so much for Salahuddin as I do. They would push him too far, and their wary eyes would be upon Nasir in expectation of retribution. But they suspect the wrong man. Nasir's anger burns hot, it is true. But Salahuddin is the striking cobra that few expect. He is lethal, and if the mullahs and sheikhs threaten to stand in the way of his conquests he may turn on them. I _must_ keep the peace. It is imperative. We cannot hope to overthrow the infidels in Jerusalem by ourselves. The warriors follow Salahuddin as though he were a prophet, and he alone commands their loyalty. We need him. He knows this fact very well. And he needs us to put the might of Allah behind his forward push in the eyes of the people. It is a delicate situation, my wife."

Zainab understood perfectly well. The tangled political web was indeed a navigational nightmare. Several of the high-ranking mullahs had come to Khaled in the early hours after the dawn prayer to speak with him regarding the lack of progress against the Christian occupiers. He'd listened to their concerns without comment, his expression never changing despite their numerous tirades against Salahuddin's softness on the opposition and Mullah Khaled's own apparent unwillingness to truly push the case of the religious leaders against the stubborn Sultan. Zainab stayed in the corner of the tent and listened, careful not to draw attention to herself. The tension had been awful, but she was becoming used to the stress of living in this particular war camp.

Priests against warriors, Arab against Arab, Muslim against Muslim...and always the tension. The damn tension you could cut with a knife.

No wonder Salahuddin preferred to spend his evenings alone.

Mullah Khaled turned and looked down at Zainab, and his face softened.

"I will return in a few hours, after I have spoken with the Sultan and Nasir. This will not be pleasant. Wait for me."

She reached up and touched his face, her haunting eyes conveying to him clearer than morning all of the love she felt.

"I will be here, Khaled." she said softly. He placed his hand against the back of hers and held it there for a moment.

"Zainab, today I will marry you. And this night you will spend in my arms. Even the difficulties of this situation and the horrors of the war will not rob us of our joy. I swear it. You are my love and my life. Together we will endure this until the end."

She lowered her eyes, feeling fear and love and desire fighting for mastery of her heart. And then a thought struck her, a terrible thought.

What she was could not long be hidden from her husband, not after they'd consummated the union and she lay in his arms in the darkness. Her eyes would give her away for one, and the mysteries of her body for another. Zainab could not bear to have the warm look he was giving her now turn to ice. But perhaps it would not. Men and women the Muslim world over dreamed of her kind, dreamed of them and longed to catch even a glimpse of those who carried the full blood of her line. Like Zainab's mother had.

She kissed Khaled's cheek again, softly, her lips lingering near his ear.

"This will truly be a night of unexpected delights, my husband. That I promise you."

* * *

Nasir rose to his feet the moment Mullah Khaled entered, folding his arms imposingly.

_'Damn it,'_ Khaled thought, _'I haven't even started speaking and he's already preparing to fight.'_

"Assalamu alaikum." he said aloud, and the Sultan returned his greeting with a touch of wariness. He looked exhausted and moderately irritated, but Khaled was not fool enough to inquire as to the reason. He knew why. It was Rana, of course. Last night he'd gone out into the valley beyond the waving shadows of the trees to speak to God alone after the final prayer for the day. Beneath the hazy light of the moon, the mullah fell to his knees and prayed with all of his heart for Rana's safe return. Not simply for the gratification of his king. Certainly not merely for the easing of Nasir's pain. And not even for the comfort of his beloved new wife. No, he had prayed for a far more selfish reason. He wanted Rana back because he missed her, though he would never have admitted such a thing to the others. She was spoiled and arrogant and stubborn and far too high-spirited...but he loved her. He had helped to raise her and shape her mind far more than the other two had. Nasir and the Sultan would go out all day long on their horses, meeting with distant lords and planning strategies, attending royal banquets and military functions, leaving behind all the rest of the camp for days or even weeks at a time.

And little Rana was dumped into his lap when they did it.

It was he, Khaled, who taught her how to hold a pen the correct way and write in elaborate Arabic script. He read her the Qu'ran and showed her how to pray properly, taking over the role of father and teacher and brother all at once when he had no desire to perform this duty in the first place. She'd told him her secrets and her childish sins, her crushes and her dreams. They'd sat together under the olive trees and watched the clouds, her soft little-girl hair brushing against his arm as she lay her head down in his lap and slept under the warm bright sky. He was her friend and her confidant, and he loved her as a younger sister. The day she turned nine he'd wrapped her in her first hijab and taught her how to pin it without sticking herself.

And she had loved him. He was the first of any of them who heard her say that. Before her master, even. It was several weeks after Rana first came to stay with them, and she was small and scared and tended to make herself scarce whenever anyone came looking for her. Except for Mullah Khaled. He could always draw her out with just the sound of his voice. And one afternoon when it was time to round her up for Jamila's sewing and cooking lesson, Khaled found her high in the branches of a gnarled old lightening-blasted tree in the courtyard. When he called up to her, she had giggled and slid down gracefully into his arms. And she'd kissed his cheek, proclaiming breathlessly that she loved him and he was her favorite, the most handsome man in the world.

It was the first and last time, but he had never forgotten it.

And so, when all the rest of the camp slept last night, he had gone out onto the cold sands and the whirling dust devils and prostrated himself before God, asking in a new tone of humility for Rana to please be returned to them. And he meant it.

He raised his eyes, looking evenly at Salahuddin. They shared a secret pain, all three of the men in this tent shared it and could not speak it aloud. So, with a heavy heart and a deep unwillingness to do what he had to do at this moment, Khaled took a slow breath and began to speak.

"Why did we retire? Why? God did not favor them. God alone determines the results of battles."

"The results of battles _are_ determined by God, but also by preparation," the Sultan told him patiently, infuriatingly, "The absence of disease and the availability of water. One cannot maintain a siege with the enemy behind. How may battles did God win for the Muslims before I came?" There was a pause, and Salahuddin narrowed his eyes slightly. "That is," he amended, "Before God _determined_ that I should come."

"Few enough," Khaled conceded. He hated the fact that his fellow mullahs were but a few feet away, undoubtedly listening to this unpleasant exchange. He thought for a second what they might be expecting him to say. And then he had it. "That is because we were sinful."

The Sultan gave a sarcastic little laugh, looking more than ever like a coiled serpent about to strike...just as Khaled had predicted.

"It is because you were unprepared." Salahuddin said shortly, pointing out the obvious in his usual manner.

A stab of irritation shot through the mullah. He knew that, damn it. But it was still an incredibly arrogant thing to say. Was the Sultan implying that Allah had nothing to do with victory or loss?

"If you think that way, you shall not be king for long." Mullah Khaled said very fast, and instantly regretted his words. A look he had never seen before came into the Sultan's eyes, a coldness that made the black spaces between the stars seem warm in comparison. Nasir unfolded his arms and took a threatening step forward, and Khaled found himself moving back slightly. He checked his movements, determined to see this thing through. Arguing with a Kurd and a Persian was not what he wished for this day, but some things simply had to be endured.

Salahuddin got to his feet, those dark eyes hard as diamonds.

"When I am not king," he said icily, "I quake for Islam."

He extended his hand, but it was a frighteningly formal gesture. "Thank you for your visit." he said, too politely.

Khaled did not move.

"Thank you for your visit." The Sultan said, softer and with more force. There was a warning there in his tone that Khaled had only heard before when in the company of foreign messengers who brought unthinkable offers or impossible demands. He reached out and took his lord's hand, stepping closer to him and lowering his voice so that the assembled religious leaders outside could not hear him.

"You promised," he said passionately, looking into the eyes of the man he so loved and respected and yet paradoxically hated at the same time, "You promised to return Jerusalem. Don't forget."

There was no answer, nor did he expect one.

With a last look, and a last glance at Nasir, he turned and left. Back into the harsh sunlight, back to the waiting ranks of his fellow mullahs, and he was instantly surrounded by them.

"What did he say?" one asked.

"Why has more progress not been made?"

"Do you expect to rouse him to action by taking such soft-handed action, Khaled?" another demanded.

"We were fools to send someone so young in to speak with the Sultan. He is stubborn."

"Send Ismael, he knows how to fight using the Qu'ran as his weapon!"

"Even the King could not argue with that!"

Khaled sighed explosively.

"Silence yourselves, my brothers! I am doing all that I can! And you would do well to let me! Stay out of the Sultan's way and allow me to do the job you sent me here for! Not a _man _of you understands fully how to handle him, and I _defy_ you to find me another besides myself who could forge such a bond between our interests and his! _One false step_ and you will undo all that I have accomplished over the past ten years! Now off with you, and let me think!" he snapped. Grumbling, his fellow mullahs dispersed, looking over their shoulders reproachfully after him as he stormed away, whispering to one another behind his back the moment he entered his tent.

"Say what you will," one grizzled old mufti noted, watching the tent-flap twitch shut behind Khaled, "That boy has spirit."

* * *

Sabiha, Andris, and Theo gathered round the bed of their young patient and watched her happily as she ate. It was a very strange feeling, seeing them smile and nod each time she took a bite of bread, as though she were some sort of caged animal that they delighted in feeding.

"I am so grateful that you're strong enough to eat something finally." Theo said, patting her hand. Andris laughed.

"We had to take it in turn to drip broth into your mouth and then stroke your throat to make you swallow it." he added.

"It was only my intervention that kept them from liquefying every food substance they could get their hands on to force-feed you. The very idea of runny beef turned my stomach, and I respected the thought that perhaps you would feel the same." Sabiha said dryly. Rana had to smile at the tone in her voice. Like a mother hen, almost, clucking at her errant chicks.

She took another bite of food, and her trio of watchful guardians smiled in unison.

"Do you remember anything at all?" Andris asked, and Sabiha stepped on his foot under the bed, causing him to wince. "That is, I mean...uh..." he trailed off.

Rana set down the piece of bread and looked at each of them in turn, feeling a snarl of uncertainty in her chest that would not loosen.

"I...I remember..." she trailed off, her gaze becoming distant. "I remember...walking. No, not walking. Running. And birds."

"The vultures." Sabiha whispered.

"They did not frighten me. I thought they were friends. And I remember...before the running...somehow..." Rana closed her eyes tightly, trying to focus. "A horse. A horse running across the sea. A man riding it. Do I know him? And I remember sitting at someone's feet, cleaning blood from armor. His voice is above me. I cannot see his face. I am cleaning and I must finish. Darkness, I am in his arms, someone's breath against my forehead..."

"Oh merciful Christ." Theo moaned brokenly, and Sabiha took his hand. Andris leaned forward and touched Rana's arm reassuringly, saying nothing.

"Yes, yes the darkness, and someone with me in the dark. And a crumbling wall and a spire of stone. Is there danger here? Yes. I - " Rana's eyes flew open, and she looked to Theo, pinning him beneath a gaze that was suddenly full of intensity. "I killed a person. I know this. I tasted his blood on my lips and I was glad of it. But there is more. Heat, and riding, and pain and blood that is his and blood that is mine. I do not know. Impressions, shadows. I think...I think I was afraid very much."

Sabiha put her free hand on top of Rana's and squeezed it. Her voice was firm and kind when next she spoke.

"It is all behind you, Rana. The fear and the pain is all behind you. We will protect you. Theo will protect you, and God help the one who comes to find you. We'll kill him, Rana. You were a slave, as Theo said, but now you are free and you are safe."

Rana cocked her head to one side, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through her head as she did so. Her neck hurt, and she stretched it.

"Who?" she asked, feeling panic in her chest.

"It does not matter." Sabiha said quickly, but there was something in her eyes that Rana did not like.

"Who kept me as a slave?" she asked again. Sabiha looked at Andris, and Rana followed her gaze. The big gentle-eyed warrior returned her stare, and after a moment he sighed.

"The leader of our enemies kept you."

"And who are our enemies?"

"Ah...the Saracens, Rana. You were...kept as a slave by the Muslims."

"Then I was a prisoner of war?"

"Uh...well...well we don't know that. We don't know how it happened. You yourself are Muslim, after all, or at least you responded to the name of Allah. You may have been taken in a raid or sold by someone else. We don't have that information. All that we know is the name of your last master. And he is our deadly enemy. But we saved you anyway."

Rana looked around at them, at their somber expressions and the noble kindness that lingered behind their eyes. No one seemed to have anything else to say - they looked uncomfortable. Rana the Bedouin felt very grateful that they had gone to such trouble for her when doing so risked attracting the attention of their enemy. She held Sabiha's hand in hers and was glad of her presence here.

"If he is your deadly enemy, my new friends, then he is my enemy as well." she said, and the tiny Voice in her chest tried again in vain to silence her. "I thank you for what you have done. I am in your debt. And if there is ever a time when I can repay you, when I can protect your lives in return, I will."

* * *

Nasir stood in the doorway of the tent and watched the sun sinking toward the far western horizon. He breathed deeply, savoring the rich scent of the fruit trees in bloom, their soft perfume soothing his raw nerves.

The rising discomfort of the current situation was getting to him. Behind him in the cool shadows, the Sultan was pulling on his black and gold dress robes in preparation for the marriage of Mullah Khaled and Zainab. Nasir should be dressing as well, but somehow his heart was not in it, not ready for the festivities and the joy.

He should be the one getting married: to Rana. And he might have been, if things were only slightly different. If Khaled had not walked in on them that night, for instance.

The thought seared him, and he fought it down. He turned away from the light and looked upon the man who had deflowered his beloved, trying his best to keep the rising fires of rage and pain from betraying him with so much as a frown.

But Salahuddin was a keen student of human emotion and behavior, and he saw through the carefully constructed mask that Nasir wore for his benefit.

"When the fruit is ripe, the nearest man sometimes finds himself unable to resist the harvest." he found himself saying suddenly.

_'Where the hell did that come from? What an idiotic thing to say.'_ he inwardly cursed himself the moment the words were out.

Nasir sighed, unfolding his arms.

"Master, if it had been any other man, I would have killed him. But you? I am torn between feeling betrayed and feeling relieved that it was not someone else."

This was unexpected. Salahuddin looked down at the roll of black cloth in his hands, suddenly forgetting how to wrap a turban. His broken heart gave a sad twinge.

"I thought to save her, and instead I have made a terrible mistake. She was on her knees that night, asking me to take her as my wife. And yet, at the same time, she is deeply in love with you. She has been from the age of ten at the least. What shall we do, Nasir? Both of us cannot marry the same woman. It would be a crime against God, and against Rana. I ask for your advice."

Nasir looked behind him again, watching the sun's rays explode in a riot of liquid gold against the low bank of clouds to the west. He seemed to smell warm sandalwood for a moment, seemed to taste the honey on his lips again as he had the first time Rana kissed him. From nowhere, a breeze lifted his sweaty hair from his brow and bathed his aching head in sudden coolness. '_Love understands, and therefore waits.' _He recalled the words from some old poem or story. They had never made sense before. Nasir looked back to his Master, standing there uncertainly beside him. He smiled gently, and in his mind he cupped a hand around the flame that burned for Rana in his chest and would never go out.

"Marry her." he said to his master.

Salahuddin looked at him, leveling his hawk's gaze at the still, calm solemnity of Nasir's face. Had he heard correctly?

"But you love her, my friend."

"I do. And I am thirty three. I will live for many years still, many years that will grant me possibilities of success in battle and in life and in love. I am your servant and student and closest friend. Who do you think will be there to care for Jamila and Rana when you die, my Lord? Who else but me?"

"What are you saying, Nasir?"

"I am saying that I can wait. There is wealth and honor and glory to be had, working beside you and learning from you. My friend, I have no wish to marry the woman who makes your eyes light up like a hundred candles and who brings you such joy and peace. You have fought hard for all of our people. You have suffered much and found so little happiness. _Take this._ If we find her – and I pray to Allah that we will – take this happiness and do not regret a thing. I will stand next to you and give all of the blessings in my heart as you take Rana to be your wife. And when the day comes that you and I must part in this life, I would be honored to accept at my side the two women whom you love more than your own blood and protect them as my own. Jamila will be an honored guest, cared for in every way and treated with utmost respect. And Rana will be cared for with all of the love and the passion that I will hold for now in a still place in my heart. I have thought long and hard about this matter since the moment Rana told me of her love for you. This is right. This is my decision. I will not take any other suggestions into consideration. This is a battle you will not win, Great One."

Salahuddin did not know what to say. He felt, in truth, as though he would weep. Nasir's love for him had never wavered, had never been brought into question. He was the most loyal general he had ever even heard of, and the Sultan's heart seemed to expand in his chest to fill his entire body.

Could such devotion even be real? The agony eased in him as though a large stone had been removed from his stomach.

He reached out and took Nasir's hand in both of his, and was relieved to see that his friend's smile was genuine.

"Imad...Nasir, I do not know..."

"There is no need. Now I will have a reason not to take your death too hard." Nasir said easily, and the Sultan forced a laugh.

"I shall try not to make you wait too long, my friend. It brings me great peace to know that you will care for my Jamila as well. She did not relish the thought of being taken in by my brother. He is not..."

"Not the man you are, Master."

Salahuddin nodded, refusing to put into words the slightest hint of disapproval for any member of his family. He squeezed Nasir's hand, his full heart not allowing him to make a sound.

And Nasir saw the gratitude in his Master's eyes, and it was enough.

His own pain also eased. It seemed to him that this decision, which in truth he had only just made, was the hardest thing he had ever done. But the moment the words left his mouth, he knew beyond a doubt that he would not have been able to accept himself as a good person had he denied the man he loved most in the world the one thing that he wanted most.

Even if it meant that the woman he, Nasir, loved most in all the world was the price. He could wait. He was able to wait, and he would wait until he was as old as his Master was now if necessary.

For Rana was worth it. And so was Salahuddin.

* * *

Zainab was filled with apprehension as she sat hip-deep in the warm bath that Mahana had prepared for her. In a few hours, she would marry Mullah Khaled. and perhaps an hour or two after that, he would find out what she was.

"Mahana, will you give me a few moments alone, please?" she asked politely, and the older woman smiled and patted her hair.

"Of course, of course. A bride's last day as a child is nothing to take lightly. If you need anything, give a shout. I'll be just there on the other side of the curtain laying out your dress and shoes. You will be the most beautiful woman in all the world today!" Mahana said joyously. She was overdoing it, obviously, because the mood since Rana's disappearance had been so bleak and no wedding day should be tainted by such sorrow. But the kindness behind the comment was genuine. After she'd gone, Zainab tilted her head back and dipped fully beneath the water, her eyes open.

Men the world over dreamed of her.

Women the world over hated her, secretly in their hearts. Or at least, they hated those like her mother, who carried the full blood. For Zainab? Well, it was impossible to tell. As far as she knew, there simply weren't any more half-breeds like herself. Her own father had told her that, since the day he and his wife found her laying still on the burning sands as an infant, they had not encountered anyone else who had even heard of such a thing.

Half human. Half human and half...something that shouldn't be here at all.

Zainab lay curled under the water for far too long without moving, passing her hands across her flesh in silence.

_These legs, these breasts, this skin, these eyes and this face...all of it, all of me for my husband. But how long will he want me? After he finds out, how long? A day? A month? Can I hide it from him?_

There would be no way, of course. Not after the first time.

Once her hymen broke, it would grow back within a matter of hours. She knew this because it had been broken before, when she'd been very young and had fallen quite hard straddling a fence post. There was a great deal of blood, and the people she knew as her father and mother had been furious. No man would ever marry a girl who couldn't bleed on her wedding night. A healer had come and inspected her right away, but the damage was complete. And so the woman she called mother and would always think of as her mother had helped her put a cool rag between her legs and sat beside her bed. And she'd told her in a quiet voice that there were ways, tricks that women knew to make the blood come anyway. A girl could make a small cut on her body, somewhere secret that the husband would not see. Distract him, smear the blood -

There was a tingling between her legs, an itch. She thought it was the blood drying. But the itch wouldn't go away.

Later that night, after her mother had left her alone, she'd inspected herself.

The flesh was intact once more.

Her screams woke the family. And the truth was revealed, all of it. From her adoption to the strange lights that would appear in her eyes when all other lights were extinguished to the odd way she was able to discern all of her father's needs simply by glancing at him. She would bring his tea before he'd asked for it, knew what temperature he needed his bath that evening, could whisper to her mother when he was feeling sad or lonely or when he was feeling the cold in his bones.

Zainab was half human. She would age, but always possess an unearthly loveliness Her body would heal itself after her husband's touch, every time. She could see in the dark, and feel the needs of men whenever she was in proximity to them.

_And they shall have countenances like rubies and pearls._

Zainab surfaced, sweeping her wet hair back from her face with both hands. She looked into the light that poured through a tear in the fabric of the tent, and a shaft of the setting sun illuminated her eyes and set the little gold flecks to glittering.

_Whom no other man shall have deflowered; these are the companions of the faithful. _

She stood, splendidly naked, and wrapped about her a soft robe.

It was time.

And brave, pure-hearted Zainab, child (somehow) of a man and a Houri, stepped into the main room of the tent and prepared herself to become the wife of a mortal.

* * *

The camp gathered together at dusk with the sounds of drumming and singing and stringed instruments signaling the delight at this wedding. Mullah Khaled was finally taking a woman into his life, and many secretly hoped that it would soften him considerably. The other mullahs stood in an uneasy knot, their eyes roving over the wild faces and flashing grins of the warriors, knowing full well that every man here who did not wear the robes of a holy man had placed their loyalties with the Sultan and not the religious leaders.

For his part, Salahuddin did not glare at them or make them feel unwelcome. He stood at the back of the long tent, waiting with the rest of his men for the bride and groom to arrive. Nasir was beside him, chatting with the messenger Ali about the need to send riders to Rand and William to ask after Rana. It was hot...too hot.

The Sultan was having trouble breathing.

_Rana_.

Had she not left, had she only waited, he and Nasir would have made everything all right between them. All of the details worked out, all of the external mess cleaned up and set to rights, leaving only the matters of the heart to remain. She was out there. Hurt, perhaps. Dying. Maybe already dead. Was she cursing his name through sunburned lips even now, vultures circling overhead as she lay helplessly on the burning sands?

_Discipline! Stand up straight, man! Don't allow even a FLICKER of pain to cross your face! You did this to yourself!_

He wasn't even listening to himself at this point. Breaking rank, unable to take it a moment longer, he slipped out through the open doorway and walked alone behind the row of tents. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes and he would compose himself as he always did and return to grant his blessing to Mullah Khaled and Zainab.

But for now...he needed to be alone.

Zainab felt his presence before she saw him. She'd dressed carefully and allowed Mahana to apply dark kohl to her eyes and red pigment to her full lips. Jasmine oil graced her wrists and throat, her hair was elaborately knotted atop her head and she wore the long white gown of a new bride more beautifully than any other woman ever had. The elegant beauty that she possessed without even trying had been heightened by Mahana's expert skill into an overpowering glory that was unearthly in its intensity.

She was crying.

The Sultan, embroiled as he was in his own difficulties, nevertheless knelt down beside her where she sat in the sand.

And it was with a timeless sorrow that Zainab raised her tear-streaked face to him like a child, and as though he had done it a hundred times before, the great Salahuddin took that beautiful face in his hands and wiped away the wetness beneath her huge dark eyes.

"He will know. Tonight, he will know. Sayyidina Salahuddin, what am I to do?"

He was silent for a moment. When next he spoke, it was a question.

"Djinni?"

She shook her head sadly, and he sighed in understanding.

"There are far worse fates than for a man to marry a Houri in life, Zainab."

"Half, my lord. He is a mullah! He will understand the sacrilege of this immediately! And when he does, what will become of me? I love him! Allah help me, I love Khaled with all the passion of...of..."

Salahuddin stilled her words, letting her lean against him the way a father would for his daughter.

"All the passion of a woman as well as the timeless passion of a Houri, yes? Zainab, your love is a gift to him. One that he will treasure. It is with joy that you should weep this day, not sorrow. "

"He will find out."

"Yes. And he will be glad of it. He will be glad of _you_."

Zainab looked up at him, holding his eyes with her own.

"Yusuf?"

He nodded.

"Will I be a good wife?"

"You will be an excellent wife. The man who marries you will be the luckiest man in all the world, and he will know it every moment of your lives together."

She smiled in spite of herself and dried her eyes. When she looked back at him, she had regained her composure.

"My father is dead."

"Yes, Zainab. I am very sorry that he cannot be here to see his greatest treasure given to a good man."

She felt a lump in her throat, and she squeezed his hand.

"In his stead, will you take me to the tent now?"

"With pride, my dear."

"And...and love? As a father would?"

Salahuddin held her closer for a moment. He tilted her chin up with his hand and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I have nine sons, Zainab. I have always prayed for a daughter. It seems that Allah has heard this prayer at last."

It was all the answer she could have hoped for. Some aching emptiness in her heart seemed to heal itself at the touch of his lips to her brow, the touch of his words to her heart. A little girl inside of her suddenly left off her ceaseless weeping, a keening wail of misery that had begun the day of her father's murder.

The woman-that-had-been-the-child got to her feet, leaning on the Sultan's arm only slightly as she stood. Then, as naturally as the sun rising, she was herself again. Implacable calm overcame her fear of the coming events. Salahuddin's words rang true in her mind. Perhaps Khaled would indeed find her lineage a blessing and not a curse. Perhaps he would love her all the more for what she was.

* * *

Zainab allowed him to lead her back into the tent, all the way to the front where her impatient husband-to-be was waiting with the mullah. Khaled looked at her, resplendent in her beauty and poise, and his gaze softened, his eyes shining. She had never felt so loved. Her heart felt as light as a feather on the wind.Beside her, Salahuddin released her hand into Khaled's. 

Zainab could not keep her eyes from her new husband. He was perfect and handsome and his eyes were darker than obsidian, glittering with joy and love. It was impossible to focus on the words that the old mullah before them were saying.

Khaled, for his part, was feeling rather drunk in the presence of such physical beauty. He had to be asked twice by the mullah if he wanted to take this gorgeous creature before him as his wife. And when he answered, instead of the usual terse 'yes' that was expected of him, he proclaimed in a loud, clear voice:

"Of course! Are you mad?!"

A low chuckle ran through the room, and Zainab smiled indulgently. Khaled blushed at his outburst. The ancient mullah before them sighed in irritation and turned to Zainab.

"And you? Do you wish to marry him, with no one forcing you?"

"Yes, sir. It is indeed my wish."

"Very well. Bismillah al-rahman al-raheem, you are his wife and he is your husband. Before these witnesses, it is done."

If he kept speaking after these glorious words, neither Khaled nor Zainab heard him. A sweetness was growing between them, like the opening of a flower at the first kiss of the sun. Like the love between a man and a woman, between a Houri and a Mullah. He reached out and brushed his fingertips across the back of her hand, taking it and pressing something into the palm. She could not look away from his face, and he smiled.

"Your mahar." he whispered. The gift that the groom gives to the bride upon their wedding day, something of great value that will be hers to keep for all time. Zainab looked down and opened her hand.

There, nestled into the center of her flawless palm, sat a flashing ruby and a creamy white pearl of exquisite beauty. Stunned, her eyes flew up to his face again.

"Khaled?" she could barely make a sound over the cheering and the drums that had started up the moment the mullah spoke the last word of blessing. Khaled leaned over and kissed her cheek, his lips tickling her ear.

"And she shall have a complexion like rubies and pearls," he quoted the Qu'ranic verse beautifully. The heat of his body was warmer even than burning sun at midday, and Zainab felt an inferno suddenly spring to life within her stomach. She closed her eyes in bewilderment.

"I knew what you were the moment I saw you, my wife. You give a learned mullah very little credit. I did spend _some_ time studying, you know."

Tears sprang to Zainab's eyes, tears of relief and gratitude. Without hesitating another moment, Khaled was on his feet, drawing her after him by the hand as they left the tent amidst much shouting and laughter and revelry.

"You...you _knew_?!"

He did not answer, running with her as though they were children, away from the tents and the noise and the music. Into the light, the light of the sunset that set the whole sky ablaze and turned their skin and eyes and hair to molten fire. When they were well away, he joyously pulled her into his arms and kissed her lips with an intensity that took her breath away.

"I knew." he said, kissing her still. They tumbled down onto the soft sand together, and Zainab's hands were tangled in that thick dark hair she so loved to look at.

"How did -" she could not speak with his lips crushing hers, and she was laughing and crying and moaning all at once.

"Your eyes. Your scent. The way you breathe. The fact that you are not afraid of anything. Zainab, _my_ Zainab, I love you! I would not care of you were a demon or an angel or even a ghost! If you were a Christian or a Jew, I would still come to you. I would still have wanted to be with you."

She could not believe how beautiful his words sounded. She tilted her head back, and his fingers as he unlaced her gown were gentle and deft.

"Khaled...I will be a virgin every night." she warned, a lingering trepidation still working its withering magic on her heart and casting a pallor over the joy of the moment.

Her husband paused, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The first stars were becoming visible behind him. Far away, the sounds of revelry could still be heard. But they were alone, here in this sheltered rocky valley under the night.

Mullah Khaled lowered his head and caught her lips again, gently this time.

"Then every night will be our wedding night, Zainab." he whispered.

And they did not speak for many hours after that.

Not in words.

The night air was cool against their bodies, the sand beneath them softer than the finest silk sheets. Khaled's arms around his wife were warm against the growing chill. When Zainab cried out, his lips were there to soothe her. He kissed away her tears and gave to her all of the love and need and passion that she had sensed in him from the moment of their first meeting. It was more than pleasure, more than pain. Their first joining held within it the promise of an entire life of happiness and laughter and abundance and devotion, every moment as perfect as this one. For no two people had ever been more well-suited for one another than the stern mullah and the graceful woman of two worlds. Her touch soothed away his nightmares, his kiss melted her soul's frost. And together they soared to heights of passion that only the denizens of Paradise knew.

"Forever." he gasped against her throat, and she held him closer.

"Forever." she echoed.

And it was so, and always would be.

* * *

"Damn it! Damn it! _Damn_ it!" Andris punched the side of the wooden outbuilding three times in a row, bloodying his knuckles. Sabiha watched him dispassionately from her perch on the crumbling stone wall.

"You're not helping matters." she commented. He seemed embarrassed by her logic, and in a flustered state he sat down heavily on the ground.

They'd sat with the young slave all day, trying to coax memories out of her whenever Theo left the room. What they'd learned had been far from comforting.

Sabiha began counting off the disquieting facts on her fingers, Andris nodding miserably at each one.

"She was Saladin's slave, maybe more. She left the camp at some point and went to Aubrin. She climbed the stone spire and found the level bit on top that you remember so well. This was during the battle. She leaped to the wall. She was stopped by a guard and she bit him. We know that Elldin was bitten in the throat during the battle. He indicated that it was a wolf. He's an ass and a liar and it was probably Rana who bit him. He's recovering. As soon as he recovers enough to speak, Rana is as good as executed. Have I missed any?"

Andris put his head in his hands with a low moan.

"Sounds pretty complete." he admitted. Theophile came out of the building looking irritated.

"Look, I know we've all had a rough day but could you _please stop hitting the side of the sick house?!_ Thanks ever so much!"

"Theo, we found out some...some things." Andris said.

"Bad things." Sabiha added helpfully. Theophile looked them both over.

"Well I admit it, then. The bogeyman isn't real. I told you two that to shut you up at night."

"Be serious! We found out," she lowered her voice, "We found out what really happened to Elldin."

Theo watched her a moment longer, then slowly lowered himself down on the wall at her side. He looked, Sabiha would say later on, like a man waiting to have his worst fears confirmed.

"I'm listening." he said, and gave them his full attention as they quickly filled him in, speaking over one another in their attempt to get the story out.

"...said that she tore at him like a wolf in the desert..."

"...teeth met in the middle1 I mean, what kind of courage do you have to have to _bite_ someone?!"

"...saw where the wall was weak and went running back to her puppet-masters with the information, doing their work for them like..."

"...couldn't tell for a moment there whether she was his mistress or just another mindless slave..."

"...sons of bitches have been using her probably for _years!"_

Theophile finally held up his hand to silence them, having heard enough to fully understand the situation.

He was quiet, thinking. There was a buzzing sound from some insect or other, and over head a little flock of crows winged their way by. Sabiha found herself fingering the dagger at her hip, sliding it out of its hastily-constructed sheath and running her finger carefully down its razor edge. He had held it in his hand, had perhaps killed with it. Certainly it was a valued weapon. She had spent quite a few hours inspecting it, turning it over and over in her hands and marveling at how well-cared for it was. The edge had been lovingly honed to hair-thin sharpness, the blade itself polished to a soft sheen. The hilt was free from dried blood or other debris, the leather fairly fresh and skilfully wrapped. Sabiha raised it to her nose and breathed deep the faint scent of sweat and sandalwood oil and cardamom. A Sultan's hand had touched this hilt, had held it and thrown it to her in mockery...

Or was it a benediction?

Theo finally sighed and stood up.

"Very well. This matter forces our hand somewhat, I'm afraid. Elldin will be able to speak within the next few weeks or so. His healing has been coming along quite well."

It was Andris who voiced what Sabiha had suddenly thought and not dared to say.

"He doesn't _have_ to be, Theo."

The searing heat of the desert was no match for the withering ice that fixed Andris to the spot when Theophile raised his eyes to glare at him.

"I do not ever again want to hear anyone suggest that I break my vows as a healer, Andris. Do you understand me?"

Andris rolled his eyes, but said no more. Theo turned to look at Sabiha.

"Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"I do. But if we are not to silence him ourselves, then we have to get her out of here, Theo. You know that. And I do not know where to take her."

"A moot point. She is not ready to travel across the encampment yet, let alone across miles and miles of unforgiving ground. I must think on this."

"And until then?"

"Keep her in the tent. Make sure she eats and drinks enough to regain her strength. Try to get her to speak a little every day, her memories may return faster and we can find out if she still has family."

"If they're Bedouin, we haven't got much hope of finding them. They move with the herds and the water supply, it's not as though they have a fixed location." Sabiha pointed out.

"So that's out. We need to find out the last place she felt safe, then. Truly safe and cared for. And then we need to find out if the place still stands and if there are people there who will help her. If all else fails, I move we sent her to a nunnery."

"Oh God, Theo! She's a – "

"And I say again: She'll be a dead Muslim if we don't make a move, no matter how desperate and unpleasant that move. You know how much your father favors Elldin. If you truly care for Rana, you'll do whatever is in her best interests."

Sabiha said nothing, sliding her finger down the blade and up again, lightly and without cutting herself. It took a light touch and a certain amount of skill.

"I will talk to her and try to get some idea as to what we may do. But I'll not let you pack a Muslim off to a convent, Theo, I really will not!"

"Nor will I." Andris said softly, and Sabiha looked at him with deep gratitude. Theo held up his hands as though warding them off.

"Fine! Fine! We will find another plan, then. It must be somewhere safe, though. And far away."

"Agreed." Sabiha and Andris accepted at once. The tension was rising, spurred on by the knowledge that King Rand would not think twice before ordering Rana's execution were he to discover her actions...irregardless of her reasons behind them. Trapped between one harsh tyrant and another, the poor girl had no allies in all the world save the three people sitting here, now, on the sun-warmed wall.

And they would not fail her.


	21. Many Changes

**Many Changes**

"You're not serious..." Khaled breathed, staring at Nasir as though he had suddenly suggested conversion to Judaism.

"The moment you have a better plan, I invite you to share it."

They stood alone at the edge of the encampment, the last prayer of the day only just finished. Khaled bore a tired smile from his long night and day in the arms of Zainab, his hair wet and curly from a very recent bath. The look, Nasir thought with a weary sort of envy, that all new husbands wore.

"Ah...Nasir? Have you considered that we would be missed by the men?"

"I have. If both of us were to go, we certainly would be missed. That is why I propose to go alone. The Sultan cannot, of course. But I can."

"You're just as well-known as he is. You've already sent the runners as he asked. What more do you expect to accomplish by going to the neighboring kingdoms in person? If word of Rana is found by the messengers, they will bring it back to our master with all swiftness."

"And by then it may be too late, Khaled! You have not spent the amount of time with him that I have! He is dying without her."

"Do not be dramatic."

"I am not. He eats less than it would take to keep a bird alive and he has not rested in three days. He paces the area behind the tents all night, never letting anyone near him in his grief. The whispers have started. You know they have."

Khaled stole a sidelong glance at the foot soldiers clustered about the cook-fire, watching the way they put their heads together and talked in low voices. He didn't like it one bit. The downfall of all of them could come in a heartbeat if anything were to threaten the unity and devotion of the army. He turned away, motioning Nasir to follow him. Together they began walking out across the oasis, the faint pink light of the setting sun warming their left shoulders.

"I had thought that Aisha..."

"Would what? Would fill the void left by Rana? One slave is as good as another? I would have thought you capable of greater understanding, Khaled. You used to care for Rana."

"I still do! Do not imply that you and Salahuddin are the only ones who are in pain over her disappearance!"

"Then do not behave as though we were."

"Your rashness had nearly been the end of you a thousand times, Nasir! This may yet be the true end, running off across the desert to the kingdoms of our enemies with nothing but your sword and your temper!"

"Then come up with something better. I'm waiting."

"Second in command! Second only to the Sultan, damn it! Are you mad?!"

Nasir did not reply, but the set of his jaw showed his anger and determination. Khaled suddenly stopped, turning slowly to look at this man whom he barely tolerated most of the time.

"Nasir?"

"What."

Khaled tested the words he was about to say a few times in his head, silently. But there seemed to be no delicate way to put the thought.

"Are you aware of what it is you're proposing?"

"Enlighten me, Wise One," Nasir said sarcastically, "I haven't had the pleasure of your opinion in a full twelve hours."

Khaled's voice softened, his anger and annoyance ebbing away as the full realization began to dawn on him.

"Nasir, you are about to risk your life to find the woman that you love."

"A thing any man would do if he were worthy of the name."

"Any man would rush off to find his beloved, yes. That is true." Khaled admitted, "But I know of no man who would do this thing simply to deliver her into the arms of someone else."

Nasir opened his mouth to speak, but something seemed to be stopping him. He ran a hand over his beard, looking past Khaled and into the sunset. It was a noble kind of agony, the ache that showed plain in his eyes, and for a moment Khaled respected him more than he ever had before.

"I...must confess something to you, Khaled. Something I have never told anyone."

"It is my duty to hear your words and repeat them to no one. Speak freely."

"My mother's village was decimated by Fatimid warriors when I was eleven. She escaped with me and we hid together in the scrub until the worst of the fighting was over. I tried not to weep...but I had seen my father killed before my very eyes and he had been my mentor and my hero as well as my father. You understand?"

Khaled, who had always felt an extreme level of tension with his own father, simply nodded in a noncommittal fashion. After a moment, Nasir continued.

"We spent days traveling through the desert. I was a boy who had spent a great deal of time playing in the most inhospitable places, pretending that I was a deposed prince trying to survive in the wilderness. I knew how to cut open the cactus and find the water. I knew what roots and mosses were good to eat. I could set snares and build shelter and find my path by the stars. All these things helped to save our lives, and in time we came to a place not far from Aleppo. My mother's injuries, sustained in the battle, threatened to kill her with the added difficulty of travel. I feared for her life every time we stopped to rest. When she lay down to sleep and I tended a fire beside her, I was always terrified that she would not awaken." He stared off into that hazy pink sunset, not seeing it, his eyes looking through the veil of years and beholding again the sleeping form of the woman in blood-stained robes and the skinny little boy beside her, too small in his father's shirt.

"Did she die, then?" Khaled asked softly. Nasir turned to look at him.

"She did." he answered, "But not before she whispered to me what my destiny should be. She told me that she had been married only seven months before my birth, and that the man I knew as my father was not truly so. I was shocked. Such things did not happen in our village. I asked her who my true father was, and she told me of the night so long ago when she had been carrying water to the soldiers of Nur ad-Din camped beside the village. A young man was with them, a wild-looking man with black eyes who followed her into the darkness and whispered soft foreign words in her ear. She was captivated by him as she had never been before. She was already betrothed at the time, but she said that it made no difference to her suddenly that night, that she forgot her duties and her honor and her place. She forgot everything except those dark eyes and that soft voice. That night was the night upon which I was conceived."

Khaled found himself suddenly rigid with anticipation, his whole countenance stilled by the power of Nasir's revelation. It was a dark and lurid tale, unquestionably salacious. But after spending a night and a day in the arms of a creature out of myth, he now believed that the world was a far stranger and more unpredictable place than he had ever imagined.

"Does she know who it was?"

"Of course. She sent me to find him and serve him if I could." Nasir said wearily.

"But did you ever find...oh Nasir...oh God..." Khaled put a hand to his forehead and took a step back. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

But he looked hard at Nasir.

And there it was.

His cheekbones, the curve of his upper lip, his earlobes. The way he walked. Even a certain tone in his voice that was completely like his father's. And it made sense. It all made sense. The deference Nasir showed him and the undying loyalty. The way he backed out so quickly from the tense vying for Rana's hand. Nasir was Salahuddin's illegitimate son.

Khaled found his voice again somehow.

"Does he know?"

Nasir didn't answer right away. He looked back again to where the bright disk of the sun had just vanished completely below the horizon.

"Of course not." he finally said.

"Why? Don't you think he'd want to know?"

"Leave it, Khaled. I will not tell him and you will not either. I have no desire to be sent to far lands with the rest of his family to protect me from some vicious foe or other. My place is here and that is all. Do not meddle like an old woman."

"Ah…" Khaled waved the insult away dismissively with his hand. But he said no more on the subject.

After a time, Nasir turned again to look at the mullah. The moon was rising in a nest of cobwebbed clouds, and a chill wind was blowing. There would be full dark soon. Time for decision and action, time for movement.

"I did not call you here to ask your permission. I am leaving this night to find Rana or die trying. Without her, our master fades. I will not allow this to happen."

Khaled sighed explosively.

"You have to remain here, curse and damn you! You are more necessary than I!" And so saying, he began to stride purposefully back into the camp, Nasir following at a trot.

"What are you saying?!"

Khaled said nothing, a muscle twitching in his jaw. They reached the corral in which the horses rested, and Khaled opened the gate and went in to fetch his horse. Nasir watched, stunned, as the irritated holy man tossed about with his saddle and blanket, preparing the gorgeous Arabian mare for journey.

"You…you intend to go yourself?"

"There is nothing for it, Nasir. Second in command of the armies that are going to take back what is ours, trying to rush off on some futile errand! You stay here!" Khaled said hotly, but without true malice. Nasir saw the look in his eyes and the determination in his movements and a ghost of a smile crossed his features.

"You do care, after all! Don't fail us, Khaled. Find her and bring her back, no matter how many people you have to kill in the process. I know you're no warrior, but try to pretend."

Khaled mounted, pulling up the hood of his cloak. As his mare careened by, tangle-hoofed in her delight at the prospect of a mad run, he called back three heartfelt words to Nasir.

They were not complimentary.


End file.
